Chapter Text
The whole school was alive.
Lanterns bobbed over the courtyard, strings of paper flowers looped between classroom windows. Smoke from yakisoba stands mixed with the sweet, buttery smell of crepes, clinging to Lev’s hair as he slipped through the crowd. Drums from the kendo club’s taiko performance echoed down the hallways, each beat rattling in his chest.
He tugged at the collar of his black cloak, half of his “ghost” costume still hanging off one shoulder after a full morning in the haunted house. The second-years he’d been scaring only an hour ago were now running around with candy apples, already laughing at someone else’s act.
“Good job in there, Lev,” Inuoka called, weaving past with a balloon sword and a paper plate stacked with takoyaki. “You made that second-year cry!”
Lev grinned, still buzzing from the rush. “It was the makeup,” he shot back, flexing like the world’s tallest ghost.
Shibayama trotted behind Inuoka, clutching a bag of goldfish from the game stalls. “Don’t forget your next shift,” he reminded, eyes flicking to Lev’s half-off cloak. “Coach will kill you if you vanish again.”
Lev waved them off with a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got an hour. Plenty of time to, y’know, experience the culture.”
He peeled off the hot cloak and slung it over one shoulder, ready to see what the rest of Nekoma had to offer. Maybe snag a snack. Maybe find Kenma and brag about the kid who’d practically fainted at the haunted house entrance.
From the stairs, a new sound cut through—louder than the rest, like a chant mixed with laughter.
Lev tilted his head. Third floor. Definitely a party.
He grinned to himself, already taking the stairs two at a time.
Lev slowed at the landing, blinking at the sight ahead: a line that snaked down the hallway, students clustered shoulder-to-shoulder. Paper hearts taped to the walls pointed toward the end of the queue, each one scrawled with the same teasing script: Class 3-B Maid & Butler Café.
He craned his neck, spotting the door at the front of the line draped in velvet fabric and fake roses. A cardboard sign promised “Elegant service and sweets worth the wait!”
Lev let out a low whistle. “No way… they turned a whole classroom into a café?”
A group of first-years in front of him giggled, whispering about “the tall butler” and “the cutest maid.”
Curiosity prickled. He drifted closer, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, and nearly collided with Kai, who was slipping out with a plate of empty teacups.
“Lev,” Kai greeted, raising an eyebrow. “Done scaring kids already?”
“Break time,” Lev said, but his gaze stayed on the door. “What’s with the line? Is it that good?”
Kai smirked. “Depends on your definition of good.” He tipped his head toward the entrance. “Go find out.”
Lev shuffled forward with the line, still wondering what the fuss was about—until the door opened and a familiar figure stepped out to collect another group of customers.
Black cat ears twitched atop dark blond hair.
A black-and-white maid dress brushed just above the knees, completed with cat stockings.
Gold eyes cool and disinterested as ever.
Lev’s heart nearly stopped.
“Kenma?!”
Kenma didn’t even blink at the shout, simply ushered the next customers inside with the same flat calm he brought to every match.
Lev grabbed Kai’s sleeve, whisper-hissing, “But—Kenma’s not even in your class!”
Kai only grinned. “Yeah, we blew our budget on him. His Class Prez didn’t want to let him go, but Kuroo reminded him Kenma wouldn’t exactly be… participating in his own homeroom’s booth. Now he’s ours for the day.”
As if on cue, Kuroo appeared in the doorway behind Kenma, dressed to the nines in a sharp butler suit, hair slicked back just enough to look handsome. Beside him, Yaku carried a tray of parfaits, also in crisp black-and-white suit.
Kuroo caught sight of Lev’s stunned expression and flashed a grin that could only mean trouble.
“Welcome to Class 3-B,” he said smoothly. “Care for a table… or maybe just a particular maid?”
“Kuroo, we’re not letting Lev skip the line. He has to wait like the rest.” Yaku barked and went back inside.
The line crawled forward like a bad serve receive.
Every time the door opened, Lev caught another glimpse of Kenma, unbothered in lace and ribbon, expression flat as he guided customers to their tables. Kuroo swept in and out behind him, flashing a smirk every time he spotted Lev inching closer.
By the time Lev reached the front, his heart was pounding harder than it did during a match.
“Party of one?” Yaku asked dryly, bowing with a flourish that made the cat ears on his headband twitch. He wore the butler uniform like a soldier in disguise, silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand.
Lev managed a stiff nod.
“Right this way,” Yaku said, leading him past the velvet curtain and into a classroom transformed. White tablecloths draped the desks, vases of fake roses set neatly in the center. Soft piano music floated from a speaker hidden in the corner. It felt absurdly formal.
Lev slid into a seat, legs almost too long for the space. Before he could take a proper breath, a shadow fell across the table.
Kenma.
He placed a tiny menu in front of Lev without a word. The black-and-white maid dress shifted when he moved, lace brushing against his wrists.
Lev couldn’t bring himself to look higher than the menu.
“Uh—hi,” he managed.
Kenma tilted his head slightly, golden eyes unreadable. “What would you like?”
Lev scanned the list—tea, parfaits, pancakes—none of it registering. His mouth moved before his brain caught up.
“…Pudding.”
Kenma blinked once. “Not on the menu.”
Lev swallowed, heat creeping up his neck.
From the next table, a familiar drawl cut in. “Pudding, huh?”
Kuroo leaned against the partition, arms folded, grin positively wolfish. “Funny. Because the only thing in this room that fits that description is standing right in front of you.”
Lev’s head snapped up, mortified. “Wha—”
“Relax,” Kuroo said, still grinning at Lev. “Kenma’s also on the menu. Thirty minutes for ten thousand yen. Limited-time offer.”
Yaku, passing by with a tray, nearly choked. “Kuroo! That’s—what, ten different rule violations?! We're running a cafe not a host club!”
Kenma didn’t even flinch. “Kuro,” he said flatly, “stop being stupid.”
“Come on,” Kuroo pressed, eyes glinting. “This is the only day Kenma wears a maid outfit. Once-in-a-lifetime deal.”
Kenma set the menu back down with quiet finality. “Lev already sees me enough at practice.”
Lev’s ears burned. He tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out too thin.
Kuroo finally relented, strolling off with a smug wave. “Your loss, Haiba.”
Kenma remained where he was, gaze steady, unreadable as ever.
“So,” he said, pen poised over his order pad. “Do you actually want something, or was pudding really it?”
Lev grinned weakly, heart still hammering. “Parfait. Strawberry. Please.”
Kenma gave a faint nod and turned away, lace hem swaying just slightly with each step.
Lev exhaled, long and shaky, and realized he hadn’t unclenched his fists since he sat down.
Around him. the room is filled with low chatter and clinking cups, but at Lev’s table everything felt suspended.
He drummed his fingertips against his knees, trying to breathe normally, trying not to track every movement of Kenma gliding between tables.
When Kenma finally returned, parfait in hand, Lev nearly jolted upright.
“Strawberry parfait,” Kenma said, voice as even as ever. He set the glass down with practiced care, whipped cream spiraling like a perfect serve. A small spoon rested across the napkin.
Lev opened his mouth—nothing came out.
Kenma’s eyes flicked to him, then to the parfait. “You should eat it before it melts.”
“Right. Yeah.” Lev grabbed the spoon a little too fast, the metal clinking against the glass. He took a bite—sweet, cold, painfully ordinary—and still his pulse refused to slow.
Across the room, the faint shutter sound of a phone camera snapped through the air.
Lev glanced sideways.
Kuroo stood brazenly by the doorway, phone held high, clicking away like a proud wildlife photographer. No attempt at subtlety, just grin after grin as he snapped shot after shot of Kenma in the maid outfit.
“Kuroo,” Yaku hissed, swatting at his arm. “You’re supposed to be greeting customers, not running a Kenma fan club.”
“Historical documentation,” Kuroo said, not lowering his phone.
Kenma didn’t even flinch. He slid a glance toward Kuroo—flat, unimpressed—and went back to arranging a tray for another table. If anything, the complete lack of reaction only made Kuroo double his efforts, the camera clicks multiplying.
Lev tightened his grip on the spoon. Great. As if his own heart wasn’t loud enough, now Kuroo was broadcasting the moment to the entire room.
Kenma lingered just long enough to check Lev’s table setup.
“Is it fine?” he asked, tone unchanged despite the paparazzi treatment.
“It’s…” Lev scrambled for words. “Great. Perfect. Uh—better than perfect.”
Kenma gave the smallest nod, unreadable as always. “Good.”
He turned as if to leave, and panic nudged Lev forward. “Wait—”
Kenma paused, looking back over his shoulder.
Lev’s brain emptied again. “Uh… thanks. For, you know… this.”
One eyebrow tilted a fraction. “For the parfait?”
“For… everything.” Lev winced at how dumb that sounded. “I mean, you didn’t have to… dress up. For your class. Or—not your class. You know.”
Kenma studied him a beat longer, expression almost—almost—amused. “They bribed my class president,” he said finally. “And I didn’t feel like arguing.”
Lev swallowed. “Still. You look…” He caught himself just in time, heat crawling up his neck. “…cool.”
Kenma’s lips curved, barely. “That’s not usually what people say about a maid outfit.”
“It’s what I say,” Lev blurted, then wished he could crawl under the table.
For a moment Kenma didn’t reply. Then he shifted his weight, the faintest shrug.
“Eat your parfait, Lev,”
Kuroo, ever the instigator, called from across the room with a sly grin: “Kenma, why don’t you take a break?”
Kenma glanced at him, expression unreadable, then gave the faintest nod. Without a word, he walked over and sat across from Lev, the black-and-white ribbons of his apron shifting with every step.
Lev’s spoon hovered midair, heart pounding harder than any jump serve. Kenma immediately pulled out his phone and began scrolling, occasionally tapping at the screen, completely absorbed in a game. His eyes flicked up only once in a while, but never for long.
For the next thirty minutes, Lev sat across from him, finishing his parfait slowly, stealing little glances as Kenma’s thumbs moved deftly over the screen. Meanwhile, Kuroo, still grinning, snapped photo after photo from across the room, clearly enjoying the spectacle, while Lev tried—and mostly failed—to focus on finishing his dessert without melting into the chair.
Afterwards, Lev barely made it out of the café before a familiar voice caught him.
“Well, well.”
Kuroo lounged against the stairwell wall, phone in hand, grin sharp enough to cut. Yaku stood beside him, arms folded, already frowning.
“You,” Kuroo said, waving his phone, “owe me big time. Thirty uninterrupted minutes of Kenma in that outfit—prime festival real estate. And I documented the whole thing.”
Lev blinked. “You… what?”
“Dozens of shots. Perfect angles. Natural lighting. A true public service.”
Yaku shook his head. “He’s been snapping pictures since Kenma tied the apron. I think he’s got a photo for every breath Kenma’s taken.”
Kuroo slid the phone into his pocket with a satisfied pat. “Historical record. Future generations will thank me.”
“Kenma’s gonna kill you,” Lev muttered, ears burning.
“Nah. He doesn’t care as long as I don’t post them,” Kuroo said, already starting down the stairs. “Which I won’t… probably.”
“Probably,” Yaku echoed, dry.
Lev tried to glare, but the image of Kenma’s quiet near-smile as he’d set down the parfait flickered back, warming him all over again.
Kuroo caught it, of course. “Someone enjoyed the maid service,” he sing-songed.
Lev’s protest came out weak. “Shut up.”
“Limited-edition Maid Kenma photo set,” Kuroo mused aloud. “Might fund our next training camp. Think it’d cover a new net?”
Yaku snorted. Lev groaned. And still, despite himself, he couldn’t stop smiling as he followed them down the stairs.
Later, his phone buzzed. A new message from Kuroo: a picture of Kenma in the maid outfit, perfectly framed, looking… impossibly composed.
The caption read: Limited edition. You’re welcome.
Lev stared at the image, heart hammering, and muttered to himself, “…I’m doomed.”
He also groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Practice tomorrow is going to be… distracting, he thought miserably, heart still racing at the memory of Kenma.
The classroom was quiet now, the last of the decorations packed away and the scent of desserts still faint in the air.
Kenma sat on the edge of a desk, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, ribbons of his maid outfit shifting slightly with his movements. His expression was unreadable, but the sharp tilt of his brows made it clear he was unimpressed.
Kuroo crouched on the floor in front of him, sitting on his knees like a scolded child, tie slightly loosened and hair messy from a long day.
“Kuro,” Kenma began, voice calm but with an unmistakable edge, “you went too far today.”
Kuroo blinked up at him, grin fading slightly, sensing the rare sting behind the deadpan words. “Did I?” he asked cautiously, trying to read the subtle menace in Kenma’s gaze.
“Yes,” Kenma said, crossing his arms tighter. “Lev isn’t a toy, and you—” he gestured vaguely with one gloved hand, “—didn’t need to push him that much. It was… excessive.”
Kuroo’s lips twitched, suppressing a chuckle. “Excessive? I was… merely capturing the moment for posterity,” he said, voice playful, though he wasn’t about to argue with Kenma’s rare intensity.
Kenma leaned back slightly, one leg swinging lazily over the other. “…Posterity doesn’t justify making someone’s face turn red enough to rival their uniform,” he said flatly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Kuroo swallowed, then gave a small nod. “Alright, alright. Point taken,” he said, hands raised in mock surrender. “Next time… I’ll try to be slightly less diabolical.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
Kuroo shifted slightly, still kneeling, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Fine, you got me,” he admitted. “But… can I be honest? I only did it because Lev’s reactions were… too good to resist.”
“…You’re ridiculous,” he said, voice even, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he wasn’t entirely displeased.
Kuroo shrugged, leaning back on his heels. “Maybe. But you have to admit, he’s… entertaining.”
Kenma crossed one leg over the other again, folding his arms. “…Yes. Entertaining. That doesn’t mean you get to exploit it.”
Kuroo chuckled softly, letting the tension ease. “Point taken, Queen of Deadpan,” he said, using the nickname he knew would get the tiniest rise out of Kenma.
Kenma returned his gaze to the floor, smothering any reaction. “…Go pack up the last of the trays. I’m still watching,”
Kuroo grinned, standing up, mock-saluting before moving to gather the remaining dishes.
“…Yes, ma’am,” he replied, shaking his head, clearly enjoying being under Kenma’s unusually firm supervision.