It's just a weird coincidence, probably, that Kenma had made a wish on his birthday candles that if being in a Sentai was too much to ask, that he could have least one best friend kind of like that. And then the next day Kuroo Tetsurou was strolling into Kenma's backyard and banging on the screen door like he owned the place. That sense of unreality had never quite worn the whole way off.
"You're like…a real person, right?" Kenma had finally got up the nerve to ask a few days after that. Kuroo had laughed so hard that Kenma hadn't brought it up again, plus Kuroo had put him in a headlock and wanted to know whether hallucinations could do that. And that was silly, right? Kenma had met Kuroo's mom and been in his room and caught beetles with him. Figments of Kenma's imagination couldn't carry huge kabuto beetles into the terrarium into his room when Kenma was way too scared to touch them.
And anyway, Kuroo had gone to school the year before Kenma and left him alone for hours and hours every day, and nobody invented an imaginary friend who left you all alone, right?
But sometimes he wondered. Just a little. Because Kuroo being a figment of his imagination was only marginally less believable than there being one person who was never put off by Kenma's quiet, cold attitude. When he started school himself, it only seemed to get worse, a whole classroom of other kids that he couldn't relate to at all. He withdrew further, some days barely talking at all the whole day, but Kuroo still didn't seem to care.
"Why are we friends again?" Kenma asked. They were outside, where it was too hot, the volleyball that Kenma didn't particularly like near Kuroo's feet, eating watermelon which was getting Kenma's hands too sticky to play his DS. He cringed as he heard it coming out of his mouth, because by now he'd learned from experience when he was saying something that would come out weird in a best case scenario, mean in a worst case scenario.
He wasn't trying to be mean, or sarcastic. He just didn't understand why strong, happy, friendly Kuroo was hanging around with him when Kenma saw him leaving his classroom with a cluster of laughing classmates every day.
Kuroo wasn't offended, of course. He spit out two, then three watermelon seeds, looking smug about the distance. "I dunno, you're fun."
"I'm definitely not," Kenma muttered, clutching his half-eaten watermelon slice more firmly. Juice ran over the back of his hand, making him wrinkle his nose.
"Are too." Kuroo said, the routine of the argument easy. "You think about interesting stuff. You're smart. I like trying to figure out what you're thinking."
"So if I talked more, I wouldn't be fun you'd go away?" Kenma asked, a bit fretfully.
"No, stupid, we're friends," Kuroo said, hopping to his feet and wiping his hands on his shorts. "C'mon, let's try tossing again."
"But—" Kenma started. Kuroo ignored him and wrapped a sticky hand around Kenma's wrist to yank him up.
Now, in high school, Kenma's old sense of unreality grows with every day closer to graduation that they get. Kuroo's already made him promise he won't quit volleyball next year, and then made him captain because Kuroo is a jerk and he didn't need to go and do that. It took Kenma most of high school to have other people he'd cautiously call friends and he isn't about to start all over now.
It's like a trial separation, practice without the seniors. Kenma hates it. Every day as they start to figure out what to do to fill in the holes, he hates it a little less, and then he hates that too.
"You're taking this way better than I thought," Kuroo comments as they walk home.
"No, I'm not," Kenma answers, gritting his teeth.
"You are."
"I'm not!" Kenma snaps, more sharply than usually Kuroo can provoke out of him in so few repetitions.
"It's just that," Kuroo scratches his cheek thoughtfully, "I thought you'd take it really badly. Like throw an actual temper tantrum maybe. Unless you already did and now it's a secret team legend you guys used to bond."
"Nobody bonded without you!" Kenma spits. "Although we should! Because you're leaving! But you're taking a really long time to do it so it sucks and you're the worst imaginary best friend I ever wished for, all right? Geez."
Kuroo stops on the sidewalk and looks him over, and Kenma stares at the ground because he hadn't meant to unearth that weird, ancient idea. But then Kuroo puts his strong, warm hands on Kenma's shoulders and pulls him in to hug him.
"Sorry." Kenma takes a deep breath; Kuroo smells like sweat, body spray, and incongruously watermelon. "This feels a lot like kindergarten."
It explains nothing, but Kuroo pats his back like he understands. Then he adds, "You know I'll still be living next door to you, right? So this year if you could wish me a cool imaginary apartment, that'd be great. Thanks, buddy."
Kenma snorts. Like he's going to waste anymore birthday wishes on this guy.
FILL: Team Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei, G
It's just a weird coincidence, probably, that Kenma had made a wish on his birthday candles that if being in a Sentai was too much to ask, that he could have least one best friend kind of like that. And then the next day Kuroo Tetsurou was strolling into Kenma's backyard and banging on the screen door like he owned the place. That sense of unreality had never quite worn the whole way off.
"You're like…a real person, right?" Kenma had finally got up the nerve to ask a few days after that. Kuroo had laughed so hard that Kenma hadn't brought it up again, plus Kuroo had put him in a headlock and wanted to know whether hallucinations could do that. And that was silly, right? Kenma had met Kuroo's mom and been in his room and caught beetles with him. Figments of Kenma's imagination couldn't carry huge kabuto beetles into the terrarium into his room when Kenma was way too scared to touch them.
And anyway, Kuroo had gone to school the year before Kenma and left him alone for hours and hours every day, and nobody invented an imaginary friend who left you all alone, right?
But sometimes he wondered. Just a little. Because Kuroo being a figment of his imagination was only marginally less believable than there being one person who was never put off by Kenma's quiet, cold attitude. When he started school himself, it only seemed to get worse, a whole classroom of other kids that he couldn't relate to at all. He withdrew further, some days barely talking at all the whole day, but Kuroo still didn't seem to care.
"Why are we friends again?" Kenma asked. They were outside, where it was too hot, the volleyball that Kenma didn't particularly like near Kuroo's feet, eating watermelon which was getting Kenma's hands too sticky to play his DS. He cringed as he heard it coming out of his mouth, because by now he'd learned from experience when he was saying something that would come out weird in a best case scenario, mean in a worst case scenario.
He wasn't trying to be mean, or sarcastic. He just didn't understand why strong, happy, friendly Kuroo was hanging around with him when Kenma saw him leaving his classroom with a cluster of laughing classmates every day.
Kuroo wasn't offended, of course. He spit out two, then three watermelon seeds, looking smug about the distance. "I dunno, you're fun."
"I'm definitely not," Kenma muttered, clutching his half-eaten watermelon slice more firmly. Juice ran over the back of his hand, making him wrinkle his nose.
"Are too." Kuroo said, the routine of the argument easy. "You think about interesting stuff. You're smart. I like trying to figure out what you're thinking."
"So if I talked more, I wouldn't be fun you'd go away?" Kenma asked, a bit fretfully.
"No, stupid, we're friends," Kuroo said, hopping to his feet and wiping his hands on his shorts. "C'mon, let's try tossing again."
"But—" Kenma started. Kuroo ignored him and wrapped a sticky hand around Kenma's wrist to yank him up.
Now, in high school, Kenma's old sense of unreality grows with every day closer to graduation that they get. Kuroo's already made him promise he won't quit volleyball next year, and then made him captain because Kuroo is a jerk and he didn't need to go and do that. It took Kenma most of high school to have other people he'd cautiously call friends and he isn't about to start all over now.
It's like a trial separation, practice without the seniors. Kenma hates it. Every day as they start to figure out what to do to fill in the holes, he hates it a little less, and then he hates that too.
"You're taking this way better than I thought," Kuroo comments as they walk home.
"No, I'm not," Kenma answers, gritting his teeth.
"You are."
"I'm not!" Kenma snaps, more sharply than usually Kuroo can provoke out of him in so few repetitions.
"It's just that," Kuroo scratches his cheek thoughtfully, "I thought you'd take it really badly. Like throw an actual temper tantrum maybe. Unless you already did and now it's a secret team legend you guys used to bond."
"Nobody bonded without you!" Kenma spits. "Although we should! Because you're leaving! But you're taking a really long time to do it so it sucks and you're the worst imaginary best friend I ever wished for, all right? Geez."
Kuroo stops on the sidewalk and looks him over, and Kenma stares at the ground because he hadn't meant to unearth that weird, ancient idea. But then Kuroo puts his strong, warm hands on Kenma's shoulders and pulls him in to hug him.
"Sorry." Kenma takes a deep breath; Kuroo smells like sweat, body spray, and incongruously watermelon. "This feels a lot like kindergarten."
It explains nothing, but Kuroo pats his back like he understands. Then he adds, "You know I'll still be living next door to you, right? So this year if you could wish me a cool imaginary apartment, that'd be great. Thanks, buddy."
Kenma snorts. Like he's going to waste anymore birthday wishes on this guy.