Chapter Text
Kenma never liked talking to people.
It started as childhood shyness and it was okay, because he never needed to speak much anyway. His mom was always right there with him, keeping away the strangers and letting him stay out of the conversation so he could play Pokemon Red on his Gameboy, and he was absolutely okay with that. It was easier than learning how to speak. Easier than dealing with the impulse to fidget his hands in the hem of his shirt when an aunt he had never seen before asked if he remembered her from when he was a baby, and having to force the words from his throat, where they’ve thickened and turned heavy and into cement.
But his dad wanted him to be better. He wanted Kenma to come out of his shell and learn how to speak for himself, pushing him to pay attention during adult conversations and watch carefully, to learn and understand body language, because maybe if he understood how people talk to each other, then just maybe he would learn how to do it for himself.
And Kenma did. His voice was soft and he never had much to say, but he managed to make a friend— Kuroo, the boy next door— and his dad was proud of him. But not much changed, besides his new companion who always wanted to play volleyball instead of Street Fighter. Kenma was still quiet and still unwilling to speak and he was still absolutely okay with that.
“I think it’s cute. Girls are naturally shy,” his mom would say, and she would speak for Kenma when he didn’t want to order his own meal, and introduce him to her co-workers when he would rather hide behind her leg and stare at them with wide eyes.
Kenma didn’t need to speak for himself, not when he had his mom right there, more than willing to do it for him.
So Kenma never grew out of it.
He learned to stay quiet and keep himself entertained without ever drawing attention, and that was good. He would listen in on his mom’s conversations, and light up when she would talk about how well-behaved he was, and over and over again, she would say how thankful she is for not having a rowdy child— and it made Kenma feel good. It made him feel wanted and loved, and only a little bit upset that his dad couldn’t understand that.
Kenma’s mom liked to disappear sometimes.
It was okay, really it was, no matter how much he missed her. After school, he liked to call her and ask when she was coming back home, and she would always tell him: “Soon, baby. Mommy’s just staying with a friend so daddy can remember how much he loves her.”
She would only disappear after really big fights, which made sense. They were always the kind that made Kenma cover his ears and stay in his room— and he hated hearing them, so of course his mom hated being a part of them. But it was okay. She was only ever gone for a week at the most, and she always came back with gifts.
He was ten years old when his mom gave him a Nintendo DS. It came with Mario Kart and Pokemon Ranger, and Kenma didn’t put it down for weeks.
“I have something for you.”
It was early, and Kenma was still half asleep, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. His mom sat on the edge of his bed and woke him up with a wide smile, while his dad stood at the door, watching them with his arms crossed over his chest and a sour look on his face. Kenma wanted to ask what was wrong, but then he blinked, and there was a Nintendo DS in his lap.
“Daddy always says-”
“Moriko, stop-”
“Daddy says I’m selfish. Do you think I’m selfish, baby?”
Kenma shook his head faster than he ever had before, wide eyes glued to his brand new console.
“That’s good,” his mother sighed, brushing aside his hair and kissing him on the forehead. She then leaned in close to whisper to him, “Everything’s okay now. Daddy made me leave for longer than usual this time, but I promise I’m not letting him separate us anymore.”
Kenma’s breath hitched in his chest and he looked up, confusion and worry settling on his face. “We’re getting separated?”
“Not if mommy can do anything to help it.”
Kenma’s dad cleared his throat from the door, that serious look on his face the same, if not much, much worse than before. “You can speak to your mother again later. We need to have a conversation.”
Kenma was ten and a half when his dad moved out.
“My parents got divorced.”
He was at the park with Kuroo, the one just a few blocks away from the middle school they would both be attending soon. Kenma idly sat on the swingset with his DS, only kicking off the ground every now and then, while Kuroo was on his feet, practicing bumping a volleyball over and over again without letting it hit the ground.
“That sucks.”
Kenma nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
Kuroo caught the ball in his hands and took his place on the other swing. “Do you miss your dad?”
“A little bit. But I have my mom so it’s okay, I think.”
When his parents sat him down to tell him they weren’t going to be married anymore, they asked who he wanted to live with, and of course, it wasn’t much of a question. His mom had already talked to him about it— told him that daddy didn’t love mommy anymore and that Kenma had to stay with mommy because she wasn’t sure how she could live with a broken heart, knowing that her baby was taken away from her.
So when Kenma’s dad asked if he wanted to live with him, Kenma stared down at his hands and shook his head and said, “No thank you.”
And it was sad, because Kenma liked his dad a lot. He liked it when he helped him beat the hard levels on his games, and when he got off work early and helped him practice volleyball with Kuroo. He was his dad, and Kenma didn’t want to choose between his parents because he loved them both, but his mom needed him and he didn’t want to be the reason her heart broke in two.
But things changed after that, and Kenma didn’t know how to feel.
He was allowed to dress however he wanted when his dad was still around, but his mom started insisting on blouses and skirts, and kitten strap shoes, and headbands to keep his hair out of his face, and it made Kenma feel sick. He felt like he was drawing attention, and he was, because now no matter where he went, his mother’s friends were always complimenting him on being such a pretty little girl. They would fawn over him, and tell him how he’s going to be such a beautiful bride someday, and how his future husband will be lucky to marry someone so pretty and quiet.
And it made him feel gross. It made his stomach twist inside of him, and his hands would start to sweat, and he just couldn’t understand why he was so uncomfortable. Those were compliments. They were supposed to make him feel good, like when he was younger and everyone would tell him how mature he was for his age.
It wasn’t until junior high that he figured out what was wrong.
Kenma was walking home with Kuroo, hands buried in his uniform pockets as he stared down at his feet. He always hated looking at someone when he had to say something that felt important. “I don’t think I like dresses,” he quietly admitted.
Kuroo shrugged. “You never liked them, so that’s not much of a surprise.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, what kind of a best friend would I be if I didn’t notice? You were always kind of a tomboy.”
Kenma always saw himself as the same as Kuroo. They were close in age and had similar hobbies, ever since Kenma got him into Mortal Kombat and Kuroo taught him how to play volleyball. They knew each other's homes just as well as they knew their own, and they were inseparable, so it was only natural that he thought they were similar.
“Also...” Kenma slowed his walking before coming to a complete stop, his eyes suddenly very concentrated on the laces of his school shoes.
Kuroo stopped and turned back to look at him. “What is it?”
Kenma never saw much of a difference between Kuroo and himself until recently, but once he noticed it, it was the only thing he could think about. He couldn’t stop wishing that he was a boy, because then maybe people wouldn’t look at him as much. If he was a boy, then maybe his mom would let him wear sweatshirts out of the house again, and maybe people would stop calling him pretty, and just maybe he would stop feeling uncomfortable even when no one was looking at him.
Kenma swallowed the dryness from his mouth. “I don’t think I like my name,” he admitted, the words barely in a whisper, almost as if he was ashamed to hear them aloud. It was a foreign feeling, to voice his thoughts aloud for the first time, and it made his throat tighten like when he was called up to the board in math class and his hands were shaking too much to write properly.
“Okay.”
Kenma looked up at him, eyes wide and hesitant. “Is that weird?”
“Not really,” Kuroo said. He slung his arm over Kenma’s shoulder and started walking again, pulling his friend along the sidewalk. “Do you need help coming up with a new one?”
Kenma wanted to be the same as Kuroo. He was the same as Kuroo, but not really, but he absolutely was. He was thirteen when he started calling himself Kenma, and it wasn’t until he got to Nekoma that he started wearing the boys’ uniform.
His mom wasn’t very happy with him.