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wednesdays and the monochrome

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The black and white piano keys move fast, carrying out the song of an angel sitting by, focusing on the story he´s trying to let fly. It´s Gods words speaking through the dark-haired player. Kenma adores him every Wednesday night, the evening dedicated to the rock and jazz music.

Tonight is his 30th visit.

Kenma is mesmerized by the long fingers touching the piano like it’s a lover to be cherished forever. Heat rises up in Kenma´s face, the hair on his body stands up. Something never changes.

The man behind the piano is Kuroo Tetsurou, the regular and favorite of everyone. Kenma taps one finger on the glass of water, listening intently, showered with the lovely tones of someone else’s soul. Kenma turns away and remembers the first night he saw him.

Heard him.

Kenma despised everything Kuroo represented. When he walked onto the stage introducing himself, he winked at the audience, flirted with everyone, played them like a fiddle. Kenma rolled his eyes which makes him laugh nowadays.

He had no idea what´s to come.

The atmosphere changed the moment Kuroo sat on the stool. World dimmed down, Kenma´s lids involuntarily closed. The arrow of intensity pierced him with a slow song kneaded by a gloomy emotion. Kenma dared to look. First, he stared at the moving hands living their own life. His eyes found the player´s face miming its individual story.

Kenma´s vision of the man crumbled down. The piano was his domain, and playing is the part of him. Together, they are one.

The expected flirting was gone.

The performance was followed by the eruption of applause. Kuroo slouched, hiding his chin observing the floor, smiling. Kenma didn´t clap. He was in awe, gaping at the true self of the man.

The player who wasn´t.

Kuroo got up to bow, his gaze finding Kenma. He still didn´t applaud as the rest of the audience. It seemed Kuroo understood. He grinned a little and left.

That´s when Kenma realized his mouth hung open.



The same pattern repeated a couple more times, and on the tenth Wednesday, Kuroo asked: “Any requests?” Many hands shot up, many people voiced their favorite songs, only Kenma stayed quiet.

Kenma never wished to come here in the first place. He by no means planned to return, and here he is, unlocking his mouth being prompted by Kuroo. He certainly hasn´t desired to ask for something. Kenma mumbled: “Your song.” Kuroo knew.



On the thirteenth Wednesday, Kuroo stopped by their table. On the fifteenth day, he welcomed Kenma´s group before his performance started.

Kenma couldn´t keep eyes off of him. Wherever Kuroo went, he was followed by a strength and resilience. Kenma desired for something more, to find a friend in him, to find a love of any kind.

He never felt so drawn to somebody. Usually, the contrary was the truth. Why was and still is, all of it so different with Kuroo?



Kenma sits there in never-ending disbelief of the power within Kuroo´s songs. Maybe that´s the answer. Maybe it´s Kuroo´s passion and truth which emanates when he plays. Others may react to his looks, to his performance, how he holds himself, but Kenma sees so much more. He sees inside of Kuroo´s self, piano keys the gate to his being.

Black and white stop the wave. There is one song left to play. Kuroo gets up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says into the mic. “Every week, there is a person who arrives in on time. I’m not sure if he´s my fan, but I’m his. If I read the situation wrong, this will be awkward.”

People laugh, and Kenma frowns, ting of jealousy and nervousness in his chest.

“Is this a standup comedy?” someone asks, hissing. Kenma stares him down.

“Since I have a feeling this person doesn´t enjoy to be in a spotlight, I am throwing the question out. Reply or don´t in your own time and way.” Kuroo clears his throat. “Will you go out with me?” Kuroo is so sure the person knows, he gets back to the keyboard and performs the well known “Your song.”

Kenma blushed but doesn´t run as he would have done some time ago.

Song finishes, Kuroo doesn´t show his face to greet them. It´s almost closing time, but Kenma stay at the same table, alone. Both circumstances unusual.

He knows he´ll come. The piano at the podium whispers it to him. Kenma is summoned to get there and touch it. He hears the curtain, then doors closing and silent steps.

“So?” Kuroo murmurs, standing by the stairs with palms clasped together, lips quivering.

Kenma turns to face him, observes him and smiles. “Yes. I´ll go out with you.”