34The whole world has probably heard the story by now. You know, the one about how Sword Art Online became a death game. 10,000 players trapped in a medieval-fantasy virtual reality game, where if their HP fell to 0 they died in real life, their brains microwaved by their virtual reality helmets, the Nerve Gear that was trapping them in the game. Cut off from the outside world, that had no way to help them, since trying to remove the Nerve Gear would also nuke their brains.
Two thousand dead in the very first month of the game. Two years until the game was beaten, and the players left alive were freed.
Yeah. That story.
And we've heard about the heroes, who fought on the front lines to clear the game, and the villains, the player killers who thought it was fun to attack and murder other players, and then all the rest of them, the ones who weren't the strongest or the smartest, but trudged on through, following in the wake of the players on the front lines, sometimes supporting them if they were able to, and sometimes catching up to them and joining them, or sometimes taking their place, since the ones on the front lines were as likely to fall as anyone else.
But no one ever tells the stories of those who were trapped on the other side. The ones whose lives were thrown into disarray, and in too many cases ruined, because of the death game, even though they themselves never played the game. I'm talking about the stories of the people whose loved ones were trapped in the game. People who were helpless to do anything but stand by and wait, day after day, never knowing what sort of danger their friend or family member was facing in that virtual reality world.
Kuroo Tetsurou was one of those people.
He blamed himself the day it happened.
All his life, he'd heard the same thing from his mom, over and over: Take care of Kenma.
Their moms were best friends and lived in the same neighborhood, and Kuroo was a year older. It was to be expected that they'd end up being friends, or at least lumped together.
When they were younger, sometimes it had been a pain. Kenma was shrimpy, and not really athletic, and just plain weird. He'd rather play videogames than do anything else, he stuttered and mumbled when you tried to talk with him, didn't seem to like anything that anyone else liked, ever, and was always staring at you. Was it any wonder that he'd been a bully magnet?
Take care of Kenma kind of came to mean: If Kenma's mom tells me that he came home beat up again, your neck's on the chopping block, mister.
That had been annoying as hell. Just like always having to go and play with Kenma, or invite him along had been annoying as hell too. It didn't matter that Kenma hated all the sports that Kuroo always wanted to play, or that he didn't want to come at all, and wouldn't have if he hadn't been made to. Their moms both decreed that he must go with Kuroo and that Kuroo must take care of him.
But that had been when they were little kids. In time, Kuroo came to see just how amazing his little tagalong was. Because it didn't take him long to realize that whenever he had Kenma on his team, he always, always won.
Kenma might not like sports, but that didn't mean he couldn't be good at them. His staring problem ceased to be a problem and became more of a weapon. Behind those big cat-like eyes was an analytical mind capable of picking apart their opponents' strategies and seeing through their movements. All their opponents' weaknesses were laid bare before Kenma's big gold eyes, leaving Kenma free to tear them apart at will. Not that he could usually do that on his own. That's what Kuroo was for. They made a good team.
Kuroo came to learn that if he took care of Kenma, then Kenma would take care of him.
Over time it stopped being about giving and taking, and which one of them owed the other one. They became friends. And when Kuroo's mom would tell him Take care of Kenma, he would roll his eyes because it was redundant, not because he was reluctant. Of course he was going to take care of Kenma. You might as well tell him Don't forget to breathe.
In middle school he dragged Kenma onto the volleyball team with him, and helped other people see how amazing his best friend was. For two years, everything was good. They won games like crazy, and there were a lot of people who really liked Kenma for enabling that to happen. Kenma finally had more friends than just Kuroo, like Yaku, who was kind to everyone, but kept a special eye out for Kenma because he could tell Kenma needed it, or Yamamoto, one of Kenma's classmates who defended him without ever having to be asked.
When he graduated a year before Kenma, he thought he was leaving Kenma in good hands. But Kenma didn't take the separation well. He continued playing volleyball, and playing well, but he also became much more withdrawn, and his videogame hobby turned into a videogame addiction. No one had to tell Kuroo to take care of Kenma this time. All on his own, he made time to drag Kenma back out of his shell. Well, as much out of his shell as Kenma ever came.
When Kenma started high school, problems arose. Their senpai were a bunch of assholes. In hindsight, Kuroo should have seen that problems would arise. His senpai barely tolerated him and his smartass ways. Kenma, they saw as their new toy to torment. They completely ignored the fact that he was a stronger setter than their third year regular, and did their utmost to drive him from the team.
Kuroo pleaded with him to stay, and though he could see it in Kenma's eyes that Kenma wanted to quit, he also saw his resolve harden, just because it was Kuroo asking him. That had hardened Kuroo's own resolve to stage a coup. The third years retired early that year. So did a couple boys in Kuroo's year who didn't see eye to eye with Kuroo. Not that they could see eye to eye with anyone when both their eyes were swollen shut, but whatever. In the end, they got the message. So did everyone who was left. Mess with Kenma and you were on your way out. Yaku and Yamamoto backed him up one hundred percent.
The two years of high school that they had together passed quickly, and Kuroo didn't plan on making the same mistake twice. Even though he believed he was leaving Kenma in a better situation than he had back in middle school, after he graduated, he made sure Kenma knew that he'd still be around. He was going to college in Tokyo, and living at home while he did so. He saw Kenma if not every evening, then almost every evening, and came over in the mornings whenever he felt like bugging his friend, because he knew Kenma secretly liked the attention from him. Kenma didn't retreat in on himself this time. His videogame addiction stayed at a level that was close to being almost reasonable. Okay, not really, but it didn't get any worse without Kuroo going to his school this time.
Even so, after Sword Art Online happened, Kuroo felt guilty. Maybe if he'd just tried harder to anchor Kenma in the real world, he wouldn't have lost his best friend in a virtual one.
He would always remember the day it happened, and the horror he felt when he learned what was going on, and the fear and dread as he hoped and prayed that what he knew was almost certainly true hadn't actually happened.
It was Yaku of all people who brought the world crumbling down on Kuroo. Not that it was his fault. He just had the misfortune to be the bearer of bad news. It was late afternoon, on a Saturday, and Kuroo was heading home from the library. Contrary to popular belief, he was a good student. If he was smart enough to always know which of a person's buttons he needed to push to annoy them as much as possible, then obviously he was smart enough to ace any test that came along. He'd actually been doing research for a project that afternoon, and was on his way to get dinner with Kenma when his cell phone rang.
"Yaku, long time no speak," Kuroo answered, pleased to hear from his former libero. Yaku was in a different university in Tokyo than the one Kuroo was attending, but they didn't get the chance to meet up or talk much.
"Kuroo," said Yaku, his voice tight with fear. "Please tell me Kenma didn't get Sword Art Online."
"What's that?" Kuroo asked, catching Yaku's worry.
"A game that – it – where's Kenma? Is he with you?"
"I'm going to meet him now. Yaku, what's wrong?"
"You haven't heard the news, I take it," said Yaku. "About that new videogame. Sword Art Online. Kuroo, when's the last time you talked to Kenma? Do you know if he was planning on playing SAO?"
"I talked to him last night. We're meeting up for dinner. And he doesn't talk to me about his videogames because it's too much effort and he knows I don't care about anything that happens in them anyway," said Kuroo. "Yaku, tell me what's going on? Why are you so worried?"
"I just sent you a link. Kuroo, when I called Kenma, he didn't answer."
"He's probably just playing a game," said Kuroo distractedly as he opened the page Yaku sent to him.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Kuroo broke into a cold sweat as he saw the news story. "Is this a joke? Tell me this is a joke, Yaku."
"It's not. It's not a joke, or a hoax. It's on every news station and news website. Kuroo, I'm really worried. I'm heading toward Kenma's house now," said Yaku.
"I'll meet you there," said Kuroo. He hung up on Yaku and started running as he speed dialed Kenma. His call went straight to voicemail. "Kenma, it's me. Call me back."
He was afraid. Because Kuroo knew. The moment he read that article, he knew. Sword Art Online was supposed to be the biggest videogame release of the decade. There was no way Kenma hadn't tried to get in on that. Now that he was thinking about it, he thought he remembered some offhand remark Kenma's mom made about Kenma waiting in line all night for something. What else would he make that much effort for other than a videogame.
Kuroo ran all the way to the subway, leapt down the stairs, and literally flew onto the train, right before it departed, unwilling to wait even a few minutes for the next one. He tried calling Kenma again, despite the ban on cell phones in the trains, and the bad reception. Again, no luck. And Kenma didn't call him back.
When he got off at his stop, he ran all the way home. Yaku met him at Kenma's door.
"No one's answering," Yaku said, eyes lit up with worry.
Kuroo fumbled with his keys. Dropped them. Snatched them up and tried again, forcing the right one into the lock and turning. Then he was running again, Yaku struggling to keep up right behind him with his shorter legs.
"Kenma! Kenma, where are you? Answer me!"
Kuroo didn't waste time searching through the house. He knew where Kenma was, and his legs carried him there on instinct. Right to Kenma's room.
"Kenma!"
And there he was. Just where Kuroo knew he'd be. Laying on his bed, his game consul on beside him, a Nerve Gear helmet on his head, little lights on it shining to signify it was on.
"No. No, no, please no," Kuroo groaned.
Yaku grabbed him before he could move another inch.
"Kuroo. You have to remember, you can't take off that helmet. It will kill him," Yaku reminded him.
Kuroo went completely stiff at the reminder. He hadn't forgotten. He just hadn't been thinking. It was a good thing Yaku had brought it up, or he might have done something stupid without realizing it.
That would have been an even bigger nightmare.
Then Kuroo nodded to let Yaku know he heard. But Yaku kept his grasp on Kuroo's shoulder, holding him back until Kuroo verbally acknowledged it.
"Right. I know. I won't take it off him. God, Kenma . . ."
Then Yaku let go of him, and Kuroo went to Kenma.
He was so still, laying there. He could have been asleep. No, even in sleep Kenma wasn't that still. He tossed and turned in his sleep, breathed heavily, sometimes even spoke in his sleep. No, this wasn't sleep. This was . . . this was . . .
"He's breathing," said Yaku, and Kuroo remembered to breathe as well then. "He's alive. Kuroo, we have to call someone."
Kuroo stood with his hands over Kenma, one hovering just above his cheek, the other over his chest. He didn't know how to fix this. But maybe someone else could. Maybe someone had found a way to get the people out of the game by now. Yes. They needed help, but –
"I . . . don't know who to call."
Yaku stared at his captain. Kuroo had always been so unshakable. In all the time he'd known him, Yaku had never seen him rattled like this. If there was a problem, Kuroo went about solving it. He didn't get flustered and shut down. But Yaku knew that everyone had their limits. It seemed Kuroo's was seeing Kenma's life in danger.
"I'll take care of it. Just breathe, Kuroo. And . . . you won't hurt him if you touch him. Only if you take off the helmet or try to shut down the console."
It took a few tries, but Kuroo finally managed to touch his best friend. Then he wished he hadn't because the lack of a flinch or jerk of surprise when his fingers brushed against Kenma's cheek just reiterated how wrong this all was. He heard Yaku talking to someone on his phone, telling them what had happened, but he couldn't tell you what he said if you asked him. His hand drifted down to Kenma's, and he threaded his fingers through Kenma's shorter, more slender ones. Kenma's hands were cool. Not cold, just cool. And oddly callused from all his gaming. Kuroo buried his face in his free hand and tried to get ahold of himself. But it was hard. So damn hard.
"Kuroo? Kuroo, it's going to be okay," said Yaku after some time had passed. Kuroo wasn't sure how much. "By this time tomorrow, every computer genius in the country will be working, trying to figure out a way to shut the Nerve Gear down safely. That is, if they haven't figured it out yet. They are going to fix this. Kenma's going to be just fine."
"I screwed up," Kuroo heard himself say. "I screwed up, Yaku."
"No. No, Kuroo, this isn't your fault," said Yaku, putting a hand on the back of Kuroo's head, trying to comfort him.
"The hell it isn't," Kuroo groaned. "I was supposed to take care of Kenma."
So I was trying to work on the numerous other fics I'm writing, but this idea sprang into my head and wouldn't go away, so here you have it.
Please review!
