Follow Your Passion: A Seamless Tumblr Journey
You knew the day was going to be shit when your coffee spilled on your white blouse before 9 a.m.
The rest unfolded like a cruel joke—back-to-back meetings that ran long, a snippy email from your supervisor that didn’t even pretend to be polite, and a presentation you’d poured hours into that got brushed aside for a 'more time-sensitive matter.' By 5 p.m., your jaw ached from how tightly you’d been clenching it all day.
So when your phone buzzed, and you saw Kuroo’s name flash across the screen, your thumb hovered over the green icon. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to pretend you were fine. But you answered anyway.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and familiar. There was a pause, like he was listening for something in the silence between you. "You sound like you had a day."
You scoffed. “That obvious?”
“You get all quiet when you’re brooding.”
You didn’t reply. The lump in your throat had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the way he could read you like this—without even seeing your face.
He waited a beat, then said, “Come out. First round’s on me.”
You started to decline—already in your sweats, already half curled on the couch—but his voice came again, coaxing.
“C’mon, I’ll even let you rant about corporate dysfunction without rolling my eyes this time.”
That got the faintest laugh out of you. And somehow, twenty minutes later, you were walking into the bar you both loved, the one tucked between a bookstore and a stationery shop, dim and warm and a little too familiar.
He was already at your usual table—second from the back, under the shelf with the crooked leg that made drinks tilt if you weren’t careful. Two pints sat on the table, and Kuroo raised one as you approached.
“Still drinkin’ like a college student?” you teased, sliding into the booth across from him.
He grinned. “Nostalgia’s a powerful thing.”
You took the glass, took a long sip, and finally sighed. It hit your system like a balm.
For the next half hour, you vented. About your boss. About the way the office printer hated you. About how you were so close to throwing your laptop out the window, and how nobody respected boundaries anymore.
Kuroo listened, as always. Interjected only when you needed him to. Smiled over the rim of his beer like he could do this for hours.
Eventually, when the flush of alcohol had softened the edges of your irritation, he leaned forward on his elbows.
“You ever think you’re just lonely?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t flinch. “I mean—you work hard, you don’t really date, you haven’t mentioned anyone in a while. Maybe it’s not just the job. Maybe it’s... everything else, too.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I'm a spinster?”
He laughed, but it sounded slightly forced. “Nah. Just saying, you deserve someone good. Thought about setting you up with a friend.”
You shrugged, looked down into your drink. “I’m not interested in someone else.”
And that was the truth. You hadn’t been, not for a long time. Not since your second year of college, when Kuroo Tetsurou sauntered into your world like he owned the place—with messy hair, too much sarcasm, and the kind of quiet loyalty that wrecked you. He was all sharp teeth and soft heart, and you’d fallen harder than you wanted to admit. But you’d also accepted, long ago, that he probably didn’t see you that way. So you tucked it down. Smiled when he dated other people. Never said a word.
Until tonight.
You hadn’t meant to get drunk. Not really. You’d planned to drink just enough to take the edge off, to let the tension bleed from your muscles after a long, miserable day. But when the bartender mentioned it was two-for-one night, and Kuroo had raised an eyebrow with that stupid, charming grin, it was all too easy to shrug and say yes.
The drinks hit harder than you expected—smoother, easier, and paired with Kuroo’s low voice and quiet laughter, it was easy to lose track. What was supposed to be one drink became two, then three, and suddenly you were warm in all the soft ways that made the world a little blurrier around the edges.
Your limbs felt too light, your thoughts too soft, and every time he said your name, it rang a little louder in your chest. At some point, you’d slumped further into the booth, propping your chin in your hand and blinking slower with each refill.
“Alright,” he said finally, his voice still light but laced with concern as he reached for your nearly empty glass. “You’re cut off.”
You pouted, dragging your eyes up to meet his, but your grin stayed lazy. "Tetsu," you said, drawing out the syllables, “you’re so bossy.”
“Someone’s gotta keep your chaotic ass alive,” he muttered, even as he flagged down the bartender and handed over his card. He didn’t even look at the receipt when it came.
You watched the way his brows knit together slightly, the way he pressed his tongue against his cheek, like he was both irritated and fond at the same time. Familiar. Comforting.
He slid out of the booth and looped your bag over one shoulder, then turned to offer you his hand.
“Let’s go, before you start snoring in public.”
The air outside was crisp. Night had fallen while you were inside, and the chill that hit your cheeks brought a bit of clarity—but not much. You shivered, and Kuroo automatically shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
You didn’t argue. You leaned into his side, let his arm steady you as you walked together down the quiet street. His touch was careful, guiding. You kept catching faint traces of his cologne—clean and woodsy, something subtle but undeniably him.
“You smell good,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.
He let out a soft snort. “Thanks.”
The cab ride was even quieter. Your head lolled gently onto his shoulder. You felt warm, and his shirt was soft, and you couldn’t stop your lips from parting with sleepy little compliments.
“I like your voice,” you whispered.
He glanced down at you, mouth twitching. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”
“Am not,” you slurred. “You're very kissable. Did you know that?”
Kuroo closed his eyes for a second, breathing in through his nose like he was trying very hard not to react. Under his breath, barely audible over the hum of the city outside the cab, he whispered, "God, it's me again. Let her remember this so I can see the look on her face tomorrow."
When you arrived at his apartment, he paid the driver with one hand and guided you out with the other, keeping his hold steady on your waist. You stumbled once on the sidewalk and clutched at his hoodie.
“Easy,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just a little.
His apartment was dark and quiet when you entered. He didn’t bother with the lights—just led you toward the couch by memory, his hand never leaving yours. You swayed a little as you collapsed onto the cushions, blinking up at him.
“Always takin’ care of me,” you said, voice soft and blurred at the edges. “You’re good at that.”
Kuroo crouched to untie your shoes, brows drawn. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you upright.”
You leaned forward, still gripping the front of his hoodie, and he didn’t pull away. Your eyes met his, blurry but intent, and your lips quirked upward.
“I love you, you know.”
Kuroo froze.
The words were slurred but clear enough to punch the breath out of him.
Your voice dropped lower, more sincere. “I love you. Since the moment I saw you.”
He stopped breathing.
His hands hovered mid-motion over your shoes, his fingers curled like they forgot what they were doing. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head to look at you.
“What?”
But your head tipped back onto the couch, your eyes fluttering shut.
“I love you,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’ve always loved you.”
“Wait—” he tried again, voice sharper now, a tremor hidden underneath.
But your breathing was already evening out, lips slightly parted, lashes resting against your cheeks. You were out cold.
Kuroo knelt there for a long moment, just staring. The words still rang in his ears, ricocheting through his ribs like they didn’t quite belong to reality.
He sat back slowly, knees folding underneath him, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Then he dragged his fingers through his hair and stood up, walking into the kitchen without really seeing.
The quiet of the apartment wrapped around him like a weight.
“…Whoa.”
--
The morning comes slowly, dragging a dull headache and a dry mouth with it.
You blink against the sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains, your body heavy, brain sluggish. There’s the faint hum of a coffee machine somewhere nearby. The smell is strong and bitter and achingly welcome.
It takes you a minute to remember where you are. The couch. Kuroo’s apartment. The drinks. Your stomach twists as snippets of the night flicker back—his arm around your waist, the way he guided you up the stairs, the sound of his laugh.
You sit up with a groan, head pounding as the room spins for a second. Your clothes are wrinkled, your mouth tastes awful, and your memories are slippery at best. But when you swing your legs off the couch and catch sight of him—Kuroo, in the kitchen, hair messy, hoodie sleeves shoved up as he stirs something in a mug—you feel it.
That deep, crawling dread.
He looks over as you shuffle in, blinking groggily. “Morning, sunshine.”
You grunt, dragging yourself to the counter as he slides a mug across to you without a word. You catch it with both hands, the warmth seeping into your skin. It’s blessedly hot. And quiet.
You sip slowly, staring into the cup, your head still throbbing. The silence stretches. He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter and sips from his own mug like this is normal. Like you didn’t say something earth-shattering last night.
Eventually, he breaks it. “You remember anything from last night?”
You blink, then close your eyes for a second, willing your sluggish brain to scroll back through the hazy reel of the evening. “We went to the bar,” you murmur slowly. “You were already there when I came in. There was a drink waiting. A pint—of course. I think I complained about work for forty-five minutes straight.”
You pause to take a sip of coffee, your eyes still narrowed in concentration.
“I had the first two drinks faster than I should have. You were teasing me about my tolerance—"
You stop.
The cab. His jacket. His arm around your waist. The stairs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, a spike of panic hitting your chest. “And you helped me back to your pla—OH MY GOD.”
Kuroo raises a brow, trying—failing—to hide the smirk that curls onto his face.
You set the mug down a little too hard. "I didn't mean it," you blurt, voice too high. "I mean—I was drunk. Very drunk. You know how I get, right? I say stupid things, I—"
You wave a hand vaguely in the air, flushing deeper. "It didn’t mean anything. I mean, obviously I care about you, we’ve always been really good friends, and I didn’t—"
Your words trip over themselves like dominoes, spiraling into panic as you try to claw your way out of whatever you admitted the night before. Your face is on fire, your fingers drumming anxiously against the side of your mug.
And Kuroo just watches you, quietly amused. Something fond in his eyes. Like he’s letting you run your mouth on purpose.
Then he sets down his cup, crosses the space between you, and gently cups your face in his hands.
You freeze.
“And here I was thinking I’d break first,” he says, voice low and warm.
You stare at him, mouth parted, utterly lost.
“…But you wanted to set me up…?” you whisper, your voice cracking mid-sentence.
He huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Oh, screw that. You’re mine now.”
You blink up at him, blinking hard like your brain is trying to keep up. “Wait, you mean that?”
He nods slowly, his hands still cradling your face. “I do. I meant it last night, too. You passed out before I could say anything, but I meant to.”
There’s a pause, the kind that’s too soft to be awkward—just full of all the things that didn’t have time to be said. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he adds quietly, voice going a little rough at the edges. “Guess I just needed you to drunkenly beat me to it.”
The laugh that slips out of you is half a breath and half a sob, surprised and stunned and disbelieving. “Oh my god.”
He grins, leaning his forehead against yours for a second, and the two of you just stand there, smiling quietly into each other like the world finally makes sense.
Then you squeeze his hands once, step back with a wince, and say, “I’m going to go throw up.”
He lets go of you immediately, one eyebrow lifting. “From excitement?”
You’re already wobbling toward the bathroom, one hand raised in defeat. “Alcohol poisoning.”
He leans against the counter, grinning to himself. “Yeah, that too.”
The Herons base was rowdy at night.
They all gathered together, tankards of beer in hand, drinking like there was no tomorrow. There may as well not have been to them.
Cleo continued brewing up drinks, adding input to the conversations going on around her.
Scott was up on the stage with Christian, asking questions in a hushed tone, yet somehow she could still hear the slur in his voice.
Eloise sat with Water, both singing somewhat poorly to bar songs and the made-up anthem of the Herons. Olive sat beside them, joining in every now and then but mostly just working on tuning their instrument.
Owen sat at one of the tables, head in his hands. He let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut.
"Guys? I think someone needs to take Owen to bed." Cleo called out.
"Really? Already?" Olive asked. "We've only had...had..." Olive's eyes began to droop. They downed another drink. "We've only had, like, five drinks."
Water shrugged. "I can take him. Be back soon!" Water stood up, staggering a little, then approached Owen. "C'mon, let's go. You've had enough for tonight."
Owen only groaned weakly in protest.
Once Water had carried Owen out of the tavern, Cleo glanced over at Scott. He was still talking to Christian, and was gesticulating madly.
Olive and Eloise seemed distracted enough. They wouldn't mind if the next round of drinks didn't come for a bit.
Cleo carefully walked up to Scott, then paused a little behind him.
"What do I do? I- is there anything I can...do for him? I mean, we've just started talk...talking to each other again!"
Christian merely shrugged in response. "I am not sure. For now, give him some space and a little time. Eventually things between you will get easier."
Scott's ears flushed. "I don't have time to wait that long! What if one of us goes out on an expedition and never comes back? I may never get to see him again in time, and I don't want thing to be tense between us if and when that happens!" His voice rose in pitch and volume.
For a brief second, Eloise and Olive glanced his way. Then the two of them slowly turned back to each other and their drinks.
Cleo set her hand on Scott's shoulder. He spun around and grasped at the handle of his rapier, then let go when he saw it was her. "I think you should sit down now Scott. Give Christian a break."
He nodded meekly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." Scott allowed Cleo to lead him to a seat at a table, then push him into it.
"Is it about Acho?"
Scott hesitated, then nodded. "I just...I just don't know what to do."
"Think about it in the morning. You're not thinking clearly right now. When you're sober, think about it then. For now, you can either keep drinking and drown your sorrows in alcohol, or you can take a rest like Owen. No shame in either option."
"Alcohol. Strong alcohol." He didn't stutter, and his voice was almost completely free of a slurred tone. Almost as if he hadn't had more drinks than most of the other Herons already.
"Sure?"
"Yes. I want you to give me so much alcohol that I can barely move around tomorrow. No, for the rest of the week."
Cleo sighed. It wasn't a good idea, but they were pirates.
Since when was anything they did a 'good idea'?
Olive let out a startled yelp, then a joyful squeal. "Cruppy! Hello!" Cruppy jumped at Olive's heels, rubbing against them and jumping like a puppy would. Olive bent down and stroked Cruppy, to which the crab-puppy-thing eagerly jumped into their lap for stroking convenience.
Smiling at the sight, Eloise was suddenly motivated to sing even louder and more joyfully than before. Olive joined in with equal vigour and Cruppy nestled in their lap peacefully.
Cleo shook her head with a warm grin, then grabbed the next round of drinks.
"To us!" She declared, holding her tankard tight and pushing it high into the air.
"To us!" The others parroted, with varying levels of volume and enthusiasm. Regardless, the sound could be heard well beyond the Herons' base and echoed through the town.
Water returned, arms free of Owen, and shouted, "To us!" at the top of her lungs. A delayed reaction, but a welcome one.
For the rest of the night, they all chanted the same thing over and over, falling asleep in the tavern.
They all regretted it in the morning.
But Herons weren't lightweights, and for some strange reason, they all wished to prove it.