Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time he was sixteen, Takashi already knew what heartbreak was.

It was his aunt once again forgetting to pick him up from elementary school during rainy days, with him waiting by the front steps with a teacher that didn’t particularly like him while wearing a jacket that was too worn and too thin to retain any sort of warmth. The chill that came with the rain never really left his memory, becoming too much of a constant to ever really forget.

It was the way he hid beneath the tiny desk one of his uncles dumped in his tiny room, listening to the laughter and the joy and the fun his extended family was having in the living room. His cousin got high marks on his test again, which apparently was a cause for celebration.

(He couldn’t say, not really, that the marks he got on the exam was higher.)

It was the other kids pulling at his hair, throwing things at him, and calling him names when he just wanted to go to school. He just wanted to be left alone, just wanted to be normal. He just wanted to go to school like a normal boy. Why was it that whenever he would look up at them he would only see their backs? Not even the monsters would tease him like this, would jeer at him like this.

Was it worse, he wondered, that he preferred being threatened by the yokai that chased him than being the target of insults from children his age?

It was the first hit, the first bruise, the first bloom of sharp pain that landed on his cheek from a heavy hand, the sting of it burning his face the way a wildfire ravished a dying forest. He didn’t know what to do that time, didn’t – couldn’t – fully process that suddenness of that slap. It was his fault, wasn’t it? Of course it was, of course it was. It was always his fault. He was bad again. He broke something again – what did he break again? Did he break something again? Surely, he did. They wouldn’t be angry at him if he had been good. He tried to be good, tried so hard to not be a burden anymore. He tried and tried and tried to be good.

But he wasn’t good.

He wasn’t good.

(They said that the first of something is always the scariest and the worst. But the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth were more painful than the last.)

So he learned.

Learned to lower his head, avert his gaze and smile like the punch to his ribs didn’t at all hurt the morning after. He learned to keep his voice modulated, poised, and polite. He couldn’t show any discomfort, any pain, any weakness – he couldn’t afford it, couldn’t afford to answer the questions that usually followed being seen with the evidence that came with it.

He was a clumsy and belligerent boy, that was what his family says whenever strangers and doctors and concerned parties ask about him. Just an abnormal boy that often sought attention by hurting himself, injuring himself.

That was fine.

It was a believable cover story, anyway. It was easier to believe than the truth, his truth. It was easier to believe that he was an attention-seeking brat rather than the simple fact that a yokai chased him off a cliff. It was easier to believe that he was a compulsive liar than to listen to the stories about the monster that keeps peeking at him from the window, following his every move, waiting for him to make a mistake.

It was easier, really it was, to believe that he was just bad.

And yet it was a familiar sort of hurt. It didn’t hurt any less, no it didn’t; the mere familiarity of it was enough to numb the hurt so he could focus on other things. He knows how to navigate this pain, knows exactly what to do once it hits, knows it well enough that he has a step-by-step process on how to hide it in a way that no one would be able to see anything was wrong.

So why, on this fine and lovely day where the sun was shining brightly overhead as the wind blew gently enough to make his flaxen hair dance with the joy that everything was going right, was everything going wrong?

“I already like someone.”

It was an innocent enough statement, something that wasn’t even surprising at their age, their grade. It was expected, even. But to hear that come from Tanuma’s mouth blindsided him, stilled him. To see his dark haired friend look so utterly bashful as Nishimura ragged him on while they walked was like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

“Natsume?”

He blinked, eyes widened a fraction when the sudden pressure of everyone’s gazes was suddenly upon him. There was concern there, why were they concerned? Did he do something again?

“Natsume?” It was Kitamoto's hand, he was sure, that pressed against his shoulder, the hand that gently pushed him down to sit on the sidewalk. Oh, oh, they were asking something. What did they say?

“I think you should take it easy.” The words were like water in his ears; garbled, subdued, fading in and out like the push and pull of the rushing ocean waves that threatened to consume him.

Ah.

He could feel it now, that slow throb. That familiar stab at the center of his heart that twists and twists and twists in an agonizingly glacial pace. That horrid weight that tugged at his heart down to the depths of his own frozen hell, the shards of its ice coating the heavy iron chains that were once again making its existence known.

He blinked once again, amber eyes glazing over as confusion set in.

This pain was something that he was accustomed to so why?

Why did it feel like he was being burned alive?

“Shit, shit.” It was Nishimura’s voice now, the swears a loud clang against his ears. His chest was aching, and that simple fact of it made Takashi look down, continually blinking as if reality still hadn't set in. Someone’s palm – ah, Tanuma’s – was aggressively rubbing against his chest.

“Breathe,” Tanuma’s usually gentle voice was iced over now as panic roiled in the other boy’s eyes. Why was he panicking? “Natsume, come on. Breathe for me.”

Oh.

He was being an inconvenience again.

That wouldn’t do.

Their voices were muffled against his ears. He didn’t really understand what they were saying, didn’t really know what they were asking of him. But he knew that it had to stop, just so he could get rid of the fear and panic in their eyes. It was his fault that they were being afraid, it was his fault that they were wasting their time. They were supposed to go to that new café, weren’t they? Or were they supposed to go to the arcade today?

That burning prickled at his skin, tongues of flame dancing over his skinny, paper-white arms. And yet he felt the cold, felt the chill of rain that hammered against his fragile body as he ran back to his caretaker’s house because they forgot to pick him up again.

Burden.

Burden, burden, burden.

No.

He can’t.

Not anymore.

Not to his friends. His family.

That slender arm of his reached up, up, and gently grasped at Tanuma’s wrist as that perfect and polite smile once again clung to his face like a second skin. He felt his shoulders lift, shrug, as his head tilted to the side in a manner that he knew was rather apologetic.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Takashi said, not a single waver to his perfectly modulated voice. His hands lifted in a placating gesture, as if to appease his friends when they surged up towards him, their faces not devoid of the unease that he caused. “Really, I’m fine.”

The laugh that came from his mouth sounded foreign to him, as if it was something that he had heard in another life, but still it felt right. It felt good. He was good.

“I’m sorry,” his mouth felt like he was chewing cardboard and nails as he took a step back, and another, and another. “I forgot I have to help Touko-san with dinner today.”

And with one last serene smile as genuine as a devil’s promise, Takashi lowered his head, averted his gaze, and ran.

Chapter Text

The sudden bang of the wooden sliding doors resounded like a gunshot inside his head as Takashi scrambled into the house. He didn’t know how he got there, didn’t know how he managed to run that far in such a short time. But it didn’t matter, he just had to get away, get away, get far, far away.

There was a shrill whining in his head, piercing, shredding whatever coherency he’d manage to hold on to as he heard a thump against the hardwood of the genkan. Frantic amber eyes blinked once, twice— butterfly wings fluttering against a raging storm as he tried to process the red blooming around his knees, slowly, slowly drenching the beige of his pants in a hot, sticky crimson. It was spreading so quickly that his mind struggled to follow, struggling to comprehend what was going on.

He shifted his eyes to the left, eyes widening as he sucked in a breath he couldn’t take at the sight of his hand that trembled violently against the walls, the same red staining the palm of his hand stark against the translucency that exposed the blue of his veins.

It took him moments, agonizing moments, to finally feel the rush of pain.

“Takashi-kun!”

Thin but strong arms wrapped themselves around him, enveloped him, pulled him up from his sprawl on the currently bloodied floor as her voice that called his name rang with worry. She’s had that expression a lot, both her and Shigeru-san, even though she tried her best to hide it from him.

Her words were muddled, oh so muddled, as he struggled to piece together the things she was saying. There was fear in her eyes, urgency in the tone of her voice as she pushed his face into her bosom, those motherly hands of hers pressing hard against his chest the way Tanuma did mere minutes before just as he heard the thundering steps that descended from the staircase.

“Takashi?”

Takashi’s head snapped up, eyes widening at the sight of Shigeru-san hovering just behind Touko-san. He was dressed formally in one of his nicer work suits, the dark black of the jacket and slacks pressed neatly over his form as the well-taken care of dress shoes gleamed when the afternoon sun came through the open doorway.

He was supposed to go to a work dinner, Takashi remembered; a rather important one. He was supposed to have left half an hour ago, though, so why was he still here?

Shigeru-san, he tried to voice but nothing came out of his mouth. Why? He looked down, frowned, grimaced at the way Touko-san’s hand was rubbing against his chest and Shigeru’s larger, stronger hand was doing the same on his back.

Oh.

Maybe it was because he wasn’t breathing.

“Come on, Takashi.” There was a soft yet desperate lilt to Shigeru-san’s voice, one that Takashi was sure he'd never heard before. “One breath, just one. Please?”

One.

One… breath?

Just… just one. For Shigeru-san. For Touko-san.

Takashi took a breath.

Or tried to.

The flutter of his lashes turned frantic; those dulled amber eyes of his widened into saucers as his head jerked from Touko and Shigeru’s faces. His hands, both trembling now, reached up, up, up towards nowhere as the pounding and pounding and pounding of his heart drowned out any sort of coherency, any sort of thought, as his mouth opened and closed against his will, as if to force his body to keep surviving amidst the inability to gather life-preserving air.

There was a wetness to his cheeks, scorching hot and salty as he clung to his caretakers’ arms. They were screaming now, fear thick in the air as they shouted his name, but he couldn’t hear them, couldn’t clearly see them. He just needed air, needed to breathe, just breathe, just—

“T-tanuma…” Takashi choked in whatever oxygen he could take, the tears now overflowing as his pulse thundered in his already overwhelmed head. “He… It’s not me…” His body lurched forward, barreling into Touko’s chest, his fingers raking into Shigeru’s skin in a show of unexpected strength. The burning that scorched his skin and lungs was at his heart now, engulfing it to cinders. He was sobbing. “He likes someone else…and I— “

Takashi turned sharply as he vomited, the bile that bore through his delicate throat mixing in with the blood and tears that currently streaked the polished hardwood floor.

-0-

It was dark when he awoke.

He didn’t know what time it was, couldn’t judge from the moonlight outside. His phone was probably in his bag still, with its nearly full battery from lack of use. There was minimal shuffling downstairs that he could hear, the soft cadence of indecipherable murmurs straining at his ears signaling that his caretakers were still awake downstairs. So it shouldn’t be too late, it shouldn't be a bad time for him to be conscious.

There were bandages on his hands, on his left knee; the very physical proof of his blunder that he still couldn’t believe he had done. He caused problems again, worried his friends and family again. He was doing so good lately, hadn't brought much trouble into his home life; he knew it was too good to be true.

Would they ship him off to another relative now that they know?

Would they throw him away after he showed another bout of his ‘instability’?

Those injured hands of his picked at his blanket, smearing bits of red across the fabric as he worried his lower lip, the taste of iron faintly coating his tongue. Has his time here ran out?

Takashi turned his head when the window opened, blank eyes blinking when his cat landed on the tatami mat with a loud thump.

Nyanko-sensei regarded him wordlessly from his perch, those age old eyes of a long-lived yokai matching the boy’s stare, before making his way to where Takashi laid and proceeded to claim his place on his charge’s chest.

Thin arms circled around the warm, rotund body; shaking ever so slightly as Takashi pressed his face into Nyanko-sensei’s fur. The guardian didn’t at all berate the boy as he would normally.

“I messed up, Sensei.” His voice was but a whisper, hoarse and broken, as tears once again streaked his pale cheeks. “I didn’t even know why I…” His breath hitched, shuddered. “I didn’t know what got into me.”

But he did know, of course he did.

He’s had these… these feelings for a while now. That hot prickle in his skin whenever Tanuma was nearby, the way he would immediately turn to wherever the taller boy was at just the sound of his voice, the way he would be so hyper aware of what Tanuma’s hands are doing, where they are in proximity to Takashi’s person— it was intense.

Tanuma has always been calming; his mere presence would be enough to ease Takashi’s anxieties and fears.

But then he started getting more involved with yokai and the calm and ease that he used to feel became fear. Night after night the terror of Tanuma being hurt by the creatures he couldn’t see plagued him, kept him awake so much that not even the fatigue of returning names could put him to sleep. Takashi decided he would distance himself from Tanuma some months ago, convinced himself that it was the only way to keep the other boy safe.

And yet he would look at Tanuma during lunch and the desire to run his slender fingers through his thick, black hair was too much for Takashi to bear. The rich melody of the other boy’s laughter would overwhelm his mind, yet kept it whole, kept it sane. Every time their shoulders brushed, every time they would share a smile that only they knew about— it broke his resolve. He couldn’t stay away. Wouldn’t even be able to.

Takashi thought he was good at suppressing his emotions; burying his own needs for the needs of others. Lower his head, avert his gaze, and smile. That’s all he needed to do. That’s what he has been doing and it worked just fine.

But apparently it didn’t work for people who actually decided they wanted to give a damn about him.

He shuddered out a breath, the soft puff of it ruffling Sensei’s fur as his bodyguard napped within his arms. Takashi was so deep in thought that he barely heard his sliding door open, the footsteps that entered a little heavier than the usual visitor.

“Shigeru-san?”

Takashi wanted to get up to greet the man that currently stood at his paternal guardian, but Shigeru just smiled and motioned for him to stay where he laid.

“How are you, Takashi?” There was a pleasant rumble in his voice that Takashi always liked; one that he never tired of hearing. He had to admit that he was a little afraid of the older man when he first moved in, and he knew both he and Touko were aware of it, but he never begrudged, never judged.

Not once has Shigeru ever raised his voice nor his fist at him.

Fatigued amber eyes now turned silver by the moonlight that shone through the open window searched his guardian’s face as the older of the two kneeled down, those roving eyes looking for any micro-expression that could show any intent of shipping him away.

He found none.

And still, the child averted his gaze as he burrowed further into his blanket, his grip on Sensei’s body getting tighter.

“Are you mad at me?”

He winced at his voice, impossibly soft, pathetically weak; the hands that smeared blood on his covers resumed with renewed vigor, adding to the already dried stains of crimson on the freshly laundered fabric. He shouldn’t have asked that, should have just kept his stupid mouth shut. Should’ve just said yes to the question and be done with it. Takashi screwed his eyes closed.

“Why would I be mad?”

Takashi blinked before looking up after a few moments of deliberation, silvered eyes widening at Shigeru’s expression.

There was none of the anger that he expected, none of the disappointment, none of the scorn. Only kindness, only love. Only the tenderness that he felt the moment he stepped inside this house that he still wasn’t convinced that he deserved. There was, however, the patience of a father waiting for an answer.

Ah, right. He needed to answer.

The way his heart accelerated scared him. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to expose himself even further. Didn’t want to show these kind people how much of a freak he actually is.

But Shigeru’s smile was patient, was caring, and the way Sensei was butting his large head against Takashi’s chin gave him a little push, a little courage, a little comfort with the knowledge that he wasn’t alone in this.

He steeled his nerves (it wasn’t really working but he’s trying his best).

“That I…” Takashi swallowed, the blanket that he used to hide now rode to cover everything except for those catlike eyes of his. “That I like… a boy?”

He once again shut his eyes, his arms letting go of Sensei’s body in lieu of protecting himself in case the inevitable hit does come.

But it doesn’t.

Instead of the sharp pain that he expected, there was only warmth, only gentleness. Takashi pried one eye open to peek at Shigeru’s expression before blinking both, the familiar feeling of confusion settling over his face as he saw the small smile on the older man’s face.

“Why would I be angry about that?” Shigeru’s larger, rougher hands stayed at his lap, as if to make sure they were within Takashi’s line of sight. There was no suddenness to his movements, just calm. Just stability; as if he was a mountain that couldn’t be bent by the howling winds.

Safety.

There was safety with him.

Takashi gasped, choked in the sob that threatened to spill as he shrugged, avoiding eye contact at all costs. “Because it’s not normal.”

There was a shuffle to where Shigeru was, and Takashi didn’t say a word as mortification settled within him when Shigeru laid himself on the tatami beside his futon. The man’s glasses skewed a little when he pillowed his head with his left arm. His serene smile never left his face.

“To love is normal, Takashi.” His eyes crinkled upwards, as if the mere concept of love still made him giddy. “It doesn’t matter to us if you like a boy. It won’t matter to Touko-san and I who you love. You’ll still be our son and we’ll love you all the same.”

The tears came freely now, the heat of it burning his skin as he surged up to where Shigeru laid, fully sinking into the arms of his paternal guardian as the sobs that he suppressed wracked his lithe body, resounding within the room as the fear and heartbreak that he’s been drowning in since the moment he realized that the boy he liked was infatuated with another was being voiced into creation by his broken and desperate cries.

It was half an hour later that Touko found them; her husband’s hands gently soothing their son’s back as the boy’s head laid on Shigeru’s arm. His breathing was still ragged even in his slumbering state; the fatigue was evident in the dark shadows beneath Takashi’s eyes and the paleness of his skin.

She shuffled into the room as quietly as she could and knelt by their heads, a sad smile on her face as her own gentle hands threaded through Takashi’s soft, flaxen hair. Nyankichi stood guard over his primary owner’s side, pushing his rotund form against Takashi’s back as if sandwiching the boy between his and Shigeru-san’s body.

There were a lot of tears shed today, but she and Shigeru-san both knew that they would be there with Takashi until the ends of the earth.

Chapter Text

When morning came, Touko knew that she couldn’t send Takashi to school.

She wouldn’t have sent him in regardless, even if the boy insisted that he was okay. Which he usually did, whenever he was on the verge of sickness.

That’s why she knew immediately that Takashi was feeling worse than he was letting on when he just simply nodded at her as he sat on his futon, his bandaged fingers wringing against each other in a worrying display of distress— an obvious contradiction to the boy’s perfectly stoic face.

He hasn’t said a word since he woke up; not to her, not to Shigeru-san, not even to Nyankichi. The boy just sat there, unmoving. Those lovely amber eyes that usually glowed gold at the loving strokes of the first breakthrough of sunlight were dulled, flat and dead to the world.

It hurt her to see him so broken; to see this child that’s been in their care for close to a year now so dejected and devastated. The fear that clutched her heart when she saw him the day before, face stricken with horror as blood pooled all over the hardwood of the floor was nothing that she ever felt before. It stunned her, knocking the wind out of her as her blood iced over, but she moved even without her own mind telling her to do so; her body acting on its own in a surge of protectiveness over the child that she and her husband called their son.

Touko stopped, blew out a breath as she knocked on the frame of the still open sliding door, a tray of Takashi’s favorite flavors of onigiri in her hands. There was barely any movement since the time she left him some hours ago; the lifelessness of his eyes remained unfocused at the direction of the open window, the breeze of the early afternoon ruffling his soft, flaxen hair.

He was still a little pale, his eyes still rimmed in red and tear-ravaged as it was the night before. She could still hear the way he sobbed, the way his breath labored and hiccupped as slender hands desperately clung to Shigeru-san’s shirt. They’ve never heard him cry for that long, never even witnessed him break down to such a degree. It made her chest ache, her throat burn, at the thought of the pain that this young boy— her child— endured without anybody knowing.

It killed her to think that a boy that’s already suffered the worst of the worst could feel an ever greater pain than the ones he’s already lived through.

“Takashi-kun?”

Takashi blinked, the stillness of his blotchy yet otherwise porcelain face broken by the motion, and turned. It was unsettling, how Touko’s heart dropped at the sight of him, those cat-like eyes of his that seemed to emanate a gentleness and warmth that she very rarely saw in the people passing through her life were now rid of their sheen as if nothing more than yellowed varnish. It was worse, far worse than when he arrived here so many months ago. It pained her, she knew that, understood that, to see him like this. This boy—her little boy—was hurting and she didn’t know how to fix it.

She stepped foot into the room, the rustling of her socked feet a soft murmur amidst the quiet room. Those eyes settled on her, listless as it tracked the way she kneeled, comfortably settling her weight onto her legs as she set the tray of food down. He didn’t speak, but she didn’t need him to. Not now, not yet. Not when he’s not ready.

Touko sat beside him, an air of calm and love emanating from her as she took one of Takashi’s hands, shaking still. Trembling. He wasn’t picking at them anymore, no longer fiddling with the bandage over his palms to the point of bleeding. She smiled at him; sad, perhaps, but there was love there. She didn’t hide what she was feeling, no. He didn’t deserve such deception at this point where he was at his lowest. She wanted him to see, wanted him to understand, that no matter what, they will always be there to love him, to take care of him. He has his secrets still, secrets that she knew they may never be enlightened of, maybe for a while, maybe for the years to come, or until the day that they die. She and Shigeru were aware that Takashi might never be comfortable enough to truly share the things caged deep within his soul, and she knew, just knew, that she was alright with that. She would love it if he finds comfort in them, but nevertheless they would love him eternally, unconditionally, because he is their son. She’ll never abandon her son.

With a dainty hand, she plucked a rice ball from the tray – salmon and pickled plum, his favorite – and gently placed it in the hand that she held. It was smaller than how she would normally make them, but Takashi barely had an appetite and she knew that smaller portions with different flavors were better at enticing him rather than giving him something that he wouldn’t be able to finish (she would be fine with it, really. She and Shigeru knew just how irregular Takashi’s appetite is, and it was much better to let him eat a portion that he could finish easier rather than give him the mental stress of consuming everything in his plate even when his stomach was about to give out just so he wouldn’t waste the food they had given him).

“Eat what you can.” There was a soft lilt to her voice; warm, soothing in its approach as she brushed away the strands of hair that covered his eyes, heart clenching when she watched the corners of his lips twitch upwards in an attempt to give her a smile. They stayed like that for a few minutes, basking in the quiet as Takashi mechanically nibbled on the rice ball. Nyankichi was still away, and will probably arrive in an hour or two. The pudgy cat stayed valiant against Takashi’s side the night before, not once did he leave the boy’s side until the first lights of dawn blanketed over their town. He usually left for long hours at a time, often coming back by dinnertime, but the cat has been at Takashi’s side on and off since the boy woke up. It was nice, she thought as her heart warmed, to know that Takashi wasn’t alone.

With a pat to his cheek, she rose and left him to his peace, fully knowing that he needed it. Hovering over such a private child in a state of distress was probably not the best idea and Touko knew that giving Takashi his agency in a time such as this would be more helpful to him than being a helicopter parent. He will reach out, he will. She believes in it.

Still she checked on him hours later, just a little peek, just to make sure he was still okay. He was laying on the futon when she found him, no longer sitting still like a statue overlooking the clouds outside his window. The food was mostly eaten, with one rice ball half-eaten. She smiled. Takashi didn’t force himself to eat it all this time. She was glad.

And yet her heart still heaved. The side of the pillow where he faced was damp, the gentle slope of his cheeks stained with dried tears that glaringly highlighted the boy’s reddened and bruised eyes.

But she was patient. She won’t rush him. They’d take it day by day as they have ever since Takashi joined their family. The road to progress was rarely ever smooth, and she sighed to the heavens above that she and Shigeru will be with Takashi through every step of the way.

She swears it.

-0-

Kaname didn’t realize that falling in love could be so easy.

It was a quiet sort of love, one that didn’t take him by surprise. Since he was a little kid, he often read about how a protagonist in a book would just stop whatever it was they were doing as the shock and realization that they’ve fallen in love hit them out of left field, so out of the blue that it left them reeling. He’s heard the adults around him that it was like a spark, an eruption of flame inside his heart, the relentless crashing of waves against the barricades built to protect one’s heart. It was fast, it was passionate, it was immense.

Kaname had none of that.

For him, it was like a cool, comforting breeze finally breaching through the sweltering summer heat, tousling his hair the way he thought a lover would. The waves were calm, a lake reflecting the blues and oranges and reds of the evening sky slowly making its way to nightfall, a steady mirror that held no disturbance, no fear, no hesitation. It was the soothing balm to cover a burn, the bandage wrapped neatly to protect an injury from the world as it kept it whole, the large, fluffy blanket that comforted him after a night filled with terrors. It was the chirping of the birds at the boughs of the trees that surrounded the temple, their cheerfulness signaling the coming of dawn. It was the gentle babbling of the brook next to his favorite spot at the patch of forest next to a meadow where he would lay and bask under the warm caress of the sun that reminded him all too well of the one that held his heart. It was nice. It was easy.

Falling in love with Natsume Takashi was easy.

Falling in love with Natsume Takashi hurt.

Never did he anticipate the sort of pain that he would feel when he fell, didn’t foresee the angst that he would undergo as he kept his affections towards the other boy close to his chest. But he didn’t hurt for himself, no. He was hurt because of the way Natsume would talk about himself, as if he wasn’t important. Because of the way Natsume would turn away from mirrors and cameras because he doesn’t see himself worthy of being seen. He would feel his chest constrict whenever Natsume would choose to get hurt to protect the person that he’s with, to keep safe those who may or may not even deserve all the love that he wants to give.

And Natsume wants to give his love, Kaname could see that loud and clear. To give grace to those who wronged him, to give a smile to those who hurt him, to forgive those who were the cause of his screams in the night, asking, begging for the torment to stop as his slender fingers raked into his frail and delicate skin.

Kaname could still remember that night, many months ago. Nishimura, Kitamoto, and Natsume all decided to stay with him at the temple to keep him company. It was such a dream, that after several weeks since meeting Natsume they could finally spend some time together, even with the company of their two other friends. It was nice, to see them all so comfortable, to see Natsume being more free with how he is rather than making himself smaller while surrounded by classmates. To see him be silly and sassy in a way that Kaname didn’t expect him to be. It was nice, more than nice—it was wonderful.

Until the screaming started.

It was as if he was doused with iced water, the burning chill of it seeping into his bones as he sprang up, adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body readied for a fight. His dark eyes frantic in the search of danger, wondering, wandering, to perceive the threat. But there was no threat—at least, none that he could see. But he could see, the image of it still remained at the back of his eyelids like a horrific brand, the way Natsume grasped at himself, his boney fingers digging and digging and scraping into himself as his screams tore through the heavy quiet of the temple.

Yokai, he remembered thinking to himself, because surely nothing else would cause this much fear and pain to Natsume, right?

But the brief eye contact with Ponta told him all that he needed to know. This was no yokai. This was no monster that pursued him at night. No, this was a terror that lived inside the boy’s mind. Accompanying him, surging through him, a never-ending stressor that consumed him.

Kaname watched, frozen, as Kitamoto and Nishimura pinned him down, his own dark eyes trailing over the blood that beaded over Natsume’s pale skin as he flailed.

Even now, months later, he could still hear the screams. Gut-wrenching. Agonizing. The shrill screams of a child begging for mercy, for respite, and getting neither but pain, pain, pain. It tore through him, it made his heart ache, his soul heavy at the thought that he couldn’t just reach over and hold Natsume when he needed that touch the most.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Natsume hurt like that. He was the strongest person Kaname knew and the pain that surges in his heart when the realization dawned on him that his friend, his beloved, became so strong because people and yokai were unkind to him.

Natsume—Takashi—who had the warmest, most beautiful smile, who had the most stunning amber and silver eyes. Takashi, who could easily uppercut a yokai running right at him. Takashi, who stood his ground and leveled his gaze against gods and beasts and exorcists alike to protect his loved ones against those who wished them harm, who stood steadfast against those who were the complete antithesis to his ideals. Takashi, lovely, lovely Takashi, whose laugh made Kaname’s heart swell, whose sharp wit often rendered him either speechless or dying of hilarity. Takashi, who would hide his smile and blush whenever Kaname caught him looking. Takashi, Takashi, Takashi.

Simply Takashi.

He was planning on confessing. Someday, one day. Sooner or later. He didn’t know, didn’t know, but the thought of finally being able to share his love to the boy in his heart warmed him, made him giddy with excitement. And he knew how fortunate he was, knew that many didn’t share the luxury of a supportive parent. It was terrifying, he mused, to sit in that chair across from his father and told him of the budding affections he had for Takashi. His father is a kind man, but Kaname was well aware that having a son, an only child, fall for someone of the same sex is not something that is easily digestible for a parent, especially one raised in a strict, Japanese household.

But his father was understanding. Not once did the man give him any indication of scorn, any sign of hate, of disappointment. He was there, with that gentle smile on his face, and sat by him like a rock unmoved by the racing currents. “I’m glad,” Kaname remembered him saying, and there weren't any other words, they weren’t needed. Just that silent support that meant the world to him in every way that counted. It made him happy, this love bubbling inside of him threatening to burst. It made him excited.

It made him careless.

They were supposed to visit that new café that opened close to the manjuu shop that Ponta liked to get his treats from. Sasada recommended it to them a few days’ prior, saying that the drinks and food were nice for students on a budget. It’s not like they were busy that weekend, so might as well. It’s been a while since the boys visited a café together, anyway.

It was the teasing that got to him, he thought bitterly. Kaname was still riding the joys of being accepted by his father and the thought of potentially confessing to Takashi soon, and while there was still that voice at the back of his head that told him repeatedly that the boy might not even reciprocate his feelings, it wasn’t enough to completely quell the glee that he felt. One day at a time, he thought to himself. He’ll take it one day at a time, and if Takashi decided that he didn’t want what Kaname wanted, then that would be dealt with, too.

But still, there was a bit of hope, if the glances and blushes that Takashi often sent his way was any indication. He was new to this, new to the prospect of even having a partner, but he wasn’t blind. He wasn’t blind to the way Takashi’s gaze would linger on him when he laughed, or to the way Takashi’s face would be set ablaze whenever Kaname gripped his shoulder or hips or hand to keep the boy from tripping. He wasn’t oblivious to the times Takashi would slip a snack or two into his bag when he thought Kaname wasn’t looking.

(Jokes on him, Kaname was always looking.)

Fact was, Kaname was pretty sure Takashi liked him, too.

So why? Why did he succumb to Nishimura’s teasing that day? Kaname knew just how bad Takashi’s self-deprecation was, how intense his self-hate could be especially when it managed to spiral out of control. So of all the things to say to Nishimura to get him to stop, why the hell did Kaname say the things that he did?

‘I already like someone.’

It was easy to see that he made a mistake. The image of Takashi’s already pale face getting paler by the second, his stress-bitten lips turning blue as he was led to sit down onto the sidewalk by Kitamoto who was looking at Kaname frantically because at that moment in time Takashi was not breathing—

Kaname has never known fear quite like that before.

It was like his body was jabbed with a fast-acting paralytic, keeping him in place as he watched, horrified, as Takashi’s body chose to die as the boy he loved so deeply stared ahead as if his consciousness was in another place, another plane of existence that Kaname couldn’t follow no matter how far his arms reached out.

It killed him, doused him in ice, the tears that threatened to fall burned behind his eyes as his body lurched to Takashi’s side, his hands frantically rubbing at the boy’s sternum to—what? Bring him back? Ground him? He didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know what the fuck to do as the only boy he’s ever loved stared glassy-eyed up at him, confusion settling into that pale face but he still wasn’t fucking breathing—

“Natsume,” he gasped, the anguish loud and raw in his ears, his lungs desperate to give Takashi the oxygen that he couldn’t provide for himself. “Breathe.” It was a plea more than a request, and if begging was what he needed to do to get Takashi to inhale even the slightest bit of air, then so be it. “Natsume, come on. Breathe for me.” Please, please breathe for me.

And he knew, Kaname knew, that he’d never forget the way those amber eyes dulled as Takashi blinked awake. He knew that he would never feel a heartbreak as bad as the way Takashi’s face morphed from horror to that placid mask that he used to have the first time they met.

He didn’t know what happened next, didn’t know how the hell Takashi managed to slip out of his grip. But he did, and Kaname couldn’t reach, couldn’t follow as the boy with flaxen hair got farther and farther away from his arms.

-0-

Kaname visited him, of course.

The first time was a bit after school. He wanted to visit him first thing in the morning but his father told him that Takashi might not be ready at that hour, so with a heavy heart Kaname had to endure the rest of the day.

He wished he was alright, wished that he wasn’t suffering, wished that he wasn’t alone while he was in pain. The Fujiwaras were kind people, and Kaname had to trust that they’d be able to take care of Takashi in a way that Kaname himself wouldn’t be able to. He had a paper bag in hand; treats that he knew Takashi loved even though the boy insisted that he liked anything that Kaname gave him.

He stood in front of the door for a while, waiting, hesitating. What if this was a mistake?

And yet he let out a long breath, sighed. This wasn’t the time to be a coward. He had more pressing matters to focus on and his fears weren’t his priority. He raised a fist and knocked.

It took a few moments before the door opened, the creak of the sliding door snapping him out of whatever reverie he was in. Touko-san blinked at him, her hair a bit rumpled than he was used to seeing her. There was exhaustion in her eyes, a sag to her shoulders, and the joy that often radiated out of her in spades was diminished in a way that prodded at his heart. But still, she smiled at him, forlorn but still warm.

“I’m sorry Kaname-kun,” she said, her voice almost a whisper as regret flittered in her eyes. “I don’t think Takashi is ready to see anyone right now.”

Especially him, he knew, though Touko-san was too nice and polite to say it.

He hated how his lower lip trembled, mourned how his heart wanted to leap inside and gather Takashi into his arms. Oh, how he wanted to see him, to cherish him, to make sure that he was okay. He wanted—needed—to fix this, needed to assure, reassure, to Takashi that there wasn’t anyone else; that he was the only person that Kaname ever yearned for.

Kaname didn’t want to leave, at least without seeing him yet. But the sorrow in Touko-san’s eyes halted him, the fatigue that rested over her shoulders stopped whatever protest he wanted to muster, and he simply nodded.

With his head hung low, he gently pushed the bag into Touko-san’s arms, waved his goodbye, and left.

It was like that for the next several days. He made sure to take as many notes as he could so Takashi would have the study material needed for the classes that he missed, though he was sure Sasada’s notes were far superior than his will ever be. He still visited, a bag of either store-bought or handmade treats for Takashi, not daring to miss a day. He would speak to Touko-san and sometimes Shigeru-san, eternally grateful that they always assured him that Takashi was a bit better.

(Better, not yet okay but better—that’s all he could expect for now, desperately latching on to that word as he trudged back to the temple, once again not being able to see the blonde. Takashi’s not okay yet, but he’s getting better. And if it takes him an eternity to be okay, then Kaname would make sure to be there every step of the way if Takashi will have him.)

Kaname brought peaches this time, having remembered that Takashi had a fondness for them. Maybe Touko-san would turn these into that peach syrup that he liked to drizzle onto his toast and tea. The thought of it brought a smile to Kaname’s face, the first he’s had since the day Takashi ran from him. He’d give anything to see a smile on the blonde’s face again, even if it’s just one more time, but he knew that thoughts like that were dangerous, especially when it came to yokai that preyed on human despair.

Takashi didn’t need another reason to despair.

He knocked on the door, three sharp knocks that would be carried inside the quiet house, and waited. The Fujiwara garden was a little unkempt, the grass a bit overgrown, and it tugged at his heart at the thought that they were too distraught to focus on anything else while their son was struggling so much. He understood them, though, as he was in the same boat.

The door opened and he turned, smiling when Touko-san answered. As he did every day for the past eight days, he murmured a few soft words, his worry for Takashi ever present, as he handed her the peaches, and turned to leave.

But it was different today.

Because as he turned to step away, a hand smaller than his own gripped his sleeve, tugging at him to a halt. He blinked, head tilting to the side as he regarded her, his confusion meeting her tired warmth.

“Would you like to see him?” There was a gentleness to her tone, and once again he felt that loving breeze that was absent in the past week that he hadn't seen Takashi. “He’s sleeping right now but,” Touko-san shrugged, shaking her head as her smile brightened a fraction. “I think it would be good for you to see him.”

Kaname didn’t know what to do when his throat constricted, his voice ragged as his heart pounded in his chest. The numbness that seemed to wash over his entirety lifted in an instant. He could see him? He could see Takashi?

Touko-san led him inside when he nodded, her motherly hands gently leading him up the stairs, into the quiet hush that descended over the house ever since its youngest resident hurried into its warm safety in his time of need. It was the nerves that settled in him now; the ice of it rushing through his veins. What if he made it worse? What if it was too soon?

What if Takashi didn’t want Kaname in his life anymore?

He sucked in a breath, paused when Touko-san stopped in front of Takashi’s bedroom door. It was still open, the light from the hallway spilling into the dark room only barely illuminated by the small lamp at a far corner.

He looked to Touko-san first, his fingers worrying in itself to callouses, and at her encouraging nod, he took a peek.

Takashi lay under a pile of blankets, his chest a steady rise and fall as his arms circled around a snoozing Ponta. His head laid on Shigeru-san’s lap, blonde hair that shone like silver in the moonlight splayed over the older man’s trousers.

He met Shigeru-san’s eyes, also laden with exhaustion, yet the smile he gave Kaname almost tore his heart to shreds.

Takashi was so small, so delicate. He was thinner compared to when he saw him last, the pallor on his cheeks still present. A half-eaten bowl of gyuudon laid next to the mattress. Bandages, newly set, wrapped around his arms.

The days that led to this made him think that he can take more pain, more grief, but to see Takashi like this felt as if he was dragged by the ocean current. Crashing over the surface, the riptide pulled him far, far from the shore, the tides beneath grabbing him by the legs and drowning him to the dark, murky depths.

He stood still by the door, his hands gripping the jamb until his knuckles turned white. An intake of breath, release. Repeat. Repeat. Repeating until he could calm his trembling heart that urged him to get closer, that yearned to hold the other boy’s hand. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. Not yet.

Kaname tore his gaze away to helplessly look at Touko-san as she took the hand that was white-knuckling the doorway. Her fingers were soothing against his skin, and still her face held a sorrow and a hope. Blinking away the images burned inside his brain, he turned to her, dropped his face into her thin shoulders, and wept.

Chapter Text

It was the nightmares that woke him up.

They weren’t the loud and scary ones, no. There were none of the monsters that jumped at him from the shadows in the freezing air of the forests that he often ran through, none of the screeching laughter that rattled his bones in the dead of night with his eyes barely open, and none of the dreams where a yokai from his grandmother’s past managed to find him and make his night a version of hell that he never wanted to experience again.

No, there was none of that.

It was quiet this time. Oppressive. It felt as though he was being compressed by a pressure he couldn’t see, couldn’t tangibly feel except for the weight that slowly crushed his chest.

This was worse, he thinks. Far worse than any yokai encounter, far worse than any other supernatural threat to his life. Because he knew what came after this lull of crushing pressure.

Was it the bony crack of a backhand this time? Or was it the sharp sting of a slap from a hand with nails so sharp it made him drip a little bit of red? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember. The emptiness of it all lingered, of course it did. If anything, Takashi knew that even if everything he loved left him, he will always be left with the emptiness that stayed faithful to his own flavor of misery. It was his constant, a familiar frequency that vibrated within his bones whenever he became complacent, whenever he believed that there would be someone there to catch him when he fell.

“Natsume.”

Takashi blinked, then turned his head.

Tanuma stood by the door, a shy smile on his face as he held a tray with what seemed like a steaming bowl of katsudon and a smaller bowl of miso soup. This has been the third day that he stopped by, either with a packet of notes or some snacks. Takashi didn’t understand, not really, why he’s doing this, but he’s not going to stop it. He doesn’t have the heart to ask him to leave.

Wordlessly, Tanuma shuffled inside, carefully closing the sliding door with a soft click, before kneeling beside Takashi’s futon. Sometimes he would be talking, chatting to him about some things that happened in school or at the temple. Him and his father planted a new sapling near his bedroom, Tanuma mentioned the other day. A Japanese maple, if he remembered correctly.

There was something soft in Tanuma’s expression, something so drastically different from the first time Takashi saw him after fleeing from the other boy’s grasp. Takashi remembered the apprehension in Tanuma’s face the day Touko-san invited him into the house, when Takashi was awake to allow him in his room. There was a tightness in the boy’s jaw, a nervousness in the way his fingers fidgeted with the handles of the plastic bag that he brought filled with the sweet and fragrant apples that Takashi was partial to as if he didn’t know what to do.

And then there was the grief.

It lingered in Tanuma’s eyes, a thin, shimmering veil that shadowed behind the joy he tried to project. It made Takashi’s chest ache, the familiar dull throb of having disappointed yet another important person in his life present in his already broken heart. But Tanuma never made him feel small, never made him feel like he was owed gratitude.

He never once made Takashi feel like he was a burden. Not when Tanuma brought him his meals and finished anything that he couldn’t eat. Not when Tanuma changed his sheets after another night of nightmares, with his sweat dampening and drying over the delicate fabric that covered his futon. Not when Tanuma carefully unwrapped and re-wrapped his injured hands and knee, taking care of those unsightly injuries with feather-light touches meant for something precious.

Takashi doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know how to interpret this... whatever this is.

Now he watches as the darker haired boy carefully places the tray on the floor before taking the pair of chopsticks to stir the miso soup in a steady rhythm, perhaps to let it cool to a temperature that would be easier for Takashi’s trembling hands to handle.

“Natsume.”

Tanuma helped him up, the tips of his fingers pressed at his back as if a ghost eager to once again feel the warmth of what they once were. The grief was barely there, peeking behind contentment, almost completely diminished when Takashi took the chopsticks from his hands and slowly, slowly nibbled on a lightly battered piece of pork.

They sat in silence, comfortable in its weight like a freshly washed blanket placed over their laps. As he did in the previous days, Tanuma scooted until his back pressed against the wall, still beside Takashi’s futon, and studiously flipped over whatever schoolwork their teacher gave him that day. He would try to explain to him the material, going over his notes and annotations Sasada wrote in the margins in that neat handwriting of hers while Takashi ate, sitting in his own bubble of silence as Tanuma’s voice washed over the room like a babbling brook murmuring happiness as if it was meant to be there.

He didn’t seem to particularly mind that Takashi didn’t speak much, that the flaxen-haired boy mostly sat there, tight-lipped except for the moments where he would mechanically take small bites out of his food.

Tanuma always watched him whenever he ate his food.

It was a subtle thing. Even with the taller boy sitting at his side or behind him, Takashi could feel his gazes as if a butterfly landed on his shoulder. Brief. Inconsequential. Tanuma hid it at first, choosing to look away whenever Takashi turned his head. But now the boy just meets his gaze, eyes so dark it’s almost black comfortably holding a pair that shone either silver or gold depending on the light in its clutches. It was intense, Takashi had to admit, whenever Tanuma didn’t break contact.

He would be explaining things in that deep yet gentle voice and his eyes would sweep over his bowl or plate, softening whenever Takashi ate more than he had the day before. The dark haired boy would wait, once again smiling when Takashi wordlessly hands him the plate, humming as he eats whatever it was that Takashi couldn’t finish.

(He’ll never say it, but it did help motivate Takashi to take one more bite every single time.)

-0-

It was on the ninth day that Takashi realized it.

His hands were bloody again. The dreams weren’t kind to him that night; memories more than nightmares plagued him, terrorized him, the cold tendrils of their clutches holding him hostage to an ever-looping slideshow of all the wrongs that happened to him. He woke up screaming, Nyanko-sensei said. Just shy of dawn, longer than he’s ever slept.

He slept fitfully, his body defending itself from itself so much that when he woke it was only the exhaustion that held his hand, cradling the back of his head as if contemplating on whether or not it was going to comfort him or snap his neck in one fell swoop.

He didn’t mean for Tanuma to tend to him so early in the morning. The guy should have been spending his weekend reading a book or hanging out with the rest of their friends. And yet those larger, more calloused hands that met far more labor than Takashi has done were holding his so tenderly, long fingers barely making contact with his skin as the boy replaced the bandages that we marred with crimson.

Takashi tried to argue, tried to convince the taller boy that doing this was not necessary. He could do this himself. He has always done this himself.

But Tanuma only looked at him, that warm smile that made those dark eyes twinkle with both delight and mischief, before going back to whatever menial task that he decided to take upon himself. And Takashi knew, just knew, that Touko-san and Shigeru-san didn’t mind this, perhaps even encouraged it, judging from those same mischievous looks that sparkled in their own eyes.

So he stopped fighting it.

He watched him now, admiring the strong line of Tanuma’s neck that led to his jaw, the tips of his often unruly hair tickling it in a way that only entranced the flaxen-haired boy the most. How would it feel, he wondered, if he were to rake his hands through that inky expanse? Was it as soft as he imagined it to be?

“How does it feel?”

Takashi blinked, his eyes refocusing on the other boy’s face before looking down at the now near-expertly wrapped hands. He tilted his head, his hair that needed to be cut following the movement in a cascade that mimicked a slow-moving waterfall. Slender fingers flexed, wiggling in practiced motions to test the tension of the bandages before easing into a loose grip. He nodded.

“It’s good.”

Tanuma smiled. “I’m glad.”

It was that joy that tipped him off. That quiet happiness that shone brightly in those lovely upturned lips tickled something within Takashi’s chest so much that he couldn’t help but reevaluate all the thoughts that he convinced himself were fact.

Because surely, it cannot be. It can’t be Takashi, right? It couldn’t be him, the guy with the baggage, the weirdo with a weak constitution, that haunted boy who seemed to carry all the curses his blood relatives dropped upon his shoulders. He was a mess, a liability. It couldn’t be him. It’s impossible that it’s him.

But Tanuma was here with him right now, barely noon, with his back pressed against Takashi’s walls, peeling some sweet-smelling apples exactly the way Takashi liked it. He never asked Tanuma to do this, never understood why he was worth spending time with when Tanuma already had a person he liked.

It was a pleasant thought. His heart was full, his heart at ease, to have some time with Tanuma at least for a while longer. He wouldn’t ever begrudge the man for loving another. Wouldn’t ever hold it against him if Tanuma left him alone. He has this now, and Takashi would be damned if he wasted it.

So he listened to Tanuma’s words, chuckled at his stories. He accepted the apple slices that the other boy gave him, ate as much as he could because Tanuma was smiling at him, Tanuma was happy with him. He was making Tanuma happy.

Takashi blinked. Tilted his head.

He was making Tanuma happy.

Takashi was making Tanuma happy.

When Tanuma could have been spending time with the person he was in love with, he was spending it all with him. No one else. Not their friends from school, not even his father. Tanuma, with his gentle hands and loving smiles, was staying here. With him.

He looked to the side, his heart humming at the sight of Tanuma concentrating on a question from a workbook, a rather adorable frown set on his lips as he lightly nibbled on the end of his pencil.

“Tanuma.”

The boy blinked, looked up. Mirrored the way Takashi tilted his head as curiosity passed through his face.

Takashi’s heart sped up, making his blood hum and his face burn. His mouth opened then closed, the words that he wanted to say refusing to make themselves known. But Tanuma only looked on, patiently waiting for whatever it was that Takashi wanted to do.

So he took a breath.

Ducked his head, his eyes darting around before once again settling on Tanuma’s face. He released a shuddering breath.

“Is it me?”

He cursed himself mentally for how weak his voice sounded, how a week of disuse made it sound foreign even to his ears. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the rejection in Tanuma’s face, didn’t want to hurt.

But still he did, because Tanuma deserved to be seen.

His heart stuttered inside his chest.

Because the expression on Tanuma’s face was nothing he’s ever seen before. His usually calm eyes were wide, glittering with a happiness he’s never witnessed. His mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, was quirked into the warmest smile Takashi has ever seen.

Jubilation. Exhilaration. Relief.

Relief.

Takashi was relieved.

He could see the way the taller boy’s body relaxed, could see the way the light fog of despair that haunted behind his eyes lift, as if dissipating into an invisible smoke. His head was tilted a little to the side, his dark hair following suit. He was breathtaking.

Tanuma still smiled, still held his eyes, still assured him that he was there. That he’s here to stay.

And Takashi, for the first time in a long time, realized that he doesn’t have to worry.

“Yes.”

-0-

The soft clinking of teacups was a pleasant sound.

There was water running, a quiet murmur from the sink at Shigeru cleanly sliced some fruit he got from the neighbors. They wondered why they haven’t heard their little boy in a while, wondered why they haven’t seen him wandering around with that fat cat of his. It was a rather warm feeling when they felt even the tiniest bit upset when he told them Takashi was sick and couldn’t go out for a while.

It should have been the end of the discussion, he mused. A few more pleasantries and Shigeru could go back to his son and young Kaname-kun. But he was asked to wait, was asked to stay for a bit while Nakahara-san ran to the back of the house to a place he couldn’t see before immediately returning with a hefty bag of peaches and strawberries. “For his health,” she said with a smile as she pressed the bag to Shigeru’s arms. He returned that smile, lifted his shoulders, and nodded before taking his leave.

Touko was still in the market, buying more thinly sliced beef since they both noticed Takashi’s appetite returning little by little. Takashi managed to eat most of the rice in the bowl he gave him that morning, Kaname-kun said, and that was enough to lift both his and Touko’s spirits, nearly eliminating the pressure that weighed down their shoulders for nearly two weeks entirely.

It seemed like a small thing for Kaname-kun to be there. He just wanted to see him, the boy told Shigeru once, while Takashi was asleep. He just wanted to make sure that Takashi was okay. He asked if he could help with those earnest yet worried eyes, and Shigeru couldn’t say that he was able to say no.

Shigeru was worried, of course. What kind of father would he be if he didn’t feel even the slightest bit of apprehension? This was the boy that his son had affections for, the boy that nearly shattered his boy’s heart. Shigeru thought that he should be angry, thought that he shouldn’t have allowed the boy to even enter their home.

But there was something in the boy’s demeanor, a strength in his eyes and yearning to be of aid that he hasn’t seen in anyone else.

So he relented. Trusted. Allowed himself to let this boy help them in taking care of their son in ways that he knew he and Touko might not be able to.

And it worked, if the smile he saw on Takashi's face was any indication.

He thought he wouldn’t be able to see that smile again. It was one of those things that he never thought he’d ever experience as a parent. That sort of fear was something neither he nor Touko ever accounted for.

Shigeru sighed as he smiled, his hands firmly holding on to the sides of the tray. He sliced some of the fruit, added a few balls of mocha while a freshly brewed pot of tea he hoped the boys would enjoy.

His steps thudded softly over the worn, wooden floorboards, a comfortable and constant sound in this house that he’s lived in for decades. It was one of their miracles to have breathed more life into this house after a period of accepting that he and Touko might not have the privilege of having children. They were content with the quiet, content with the slow ticking of the clock as they lived their harmonious days. They were happy, then. A different sort of happy, but happy nonetheless. But now they have their Takashi in this house that they believed would only exist in the solemnity of gentle peace, bringing a liveliness to their otherwise monotonous day to day.

He knocked on the edge of the door, careful to not break the paper, raising an eyebrow when he didn’t get any response. With a careful touch, Shigeru opened the sliding door without so much as a hitch.

And there laid his son, his face slack in its relaxation, one hand outstretched as sleep overtook him. Beside him, on his side over the worn tatami mats, his head pillowed by his own arm, Kaname-kun laid, his breathing coming out in soft puffs as he slept.

Shigeru smiled.

The snacks could wait.

(And if he quietly came back down the stairs with the biggest grin on his face upon seeing the way his son’s slender fingers rested on Kaname-kun’s open palm, pinkies intertwined, then that’s only for him and their house to know.)