Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The scent of miso soup drifted through the kitchen, curling around the soft hum of the kettle. Morning light spilled through the window above the sink, stretching long and golden across the countertops. Fuma stood by the stove, a spatula in hand, gently folding tofu into the pan with practiced movements. The air sizzled when he added a dash of soy sauce, the sound blending with the quiet rustle of pages and the occasional clink of dishes.
At the kitchen table, Harua sat cross-legged on his chair, hair still a mess of sleep and static. A tattered manga volume lay open before him, his small fingers smudged with crumbs from the toast he barely touched. Across from him, Taki scrolled through something on his phone, one earbud dangling, the other tucked in. He looked up when Fuma set down a plate of sliced fruit.
“Thanks,” Taki said, his voice low but sincere.
Fuma smiled gently and ruffled his hair. “You’re welcome, kid.”
Yudai entered a few moments later, still drying his hair with a towel. He caught Fuma’s eye and offered a small, wordless smile—the kind they’d been sharing between them over the last few years, something soft and grounded, like quiet trust.
Yudai moved easily around the kitchen, their routines so deeply entangled now that words weren’t needed. He poured coffee while Fuma plated the food and brushed his fingers lightly across Fuma’s back as he reached for a cup.
And yet—the fourth chair remained empty.
Fuma glanced at the clock. 7:22.
He didn’t say anything aloud, but the question hung there anyway, pressing against his chest like a weight.

The stairs creaked beneath his feet as Fuma padded up toward the second floor. The hallway was dim, the air quiet except for the faint ticking of a wall clock and the soft sounds of someone moving behind a closed door.
He stopped outside Maki’s room and knocked twice, knuckles light against the wood.
“Maki?” he said. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
There was a pause. Then a voice, muffled and flat: “I’m not hungry.”
Fuma hesitated. “I made the tofu omelet you like. The one with scallions.”
Another pause.
“I’m not hungry,” Maki repeated, this time with a firmer edge.
Fuma nodded to himself. He didn’t push.
“Okay. I’ll save you a piece, just in case.”
He turned, hand on the banister, then looked back at the door.
“I was thinking… the art museum has a new exhibit. Abstract sculpture. Thought you might like it. Just you and me, if you’re up for it.”
Silence.
“I’ll be around,” Fuma said softly, and made his way back down.

Back in the kitchen, Yudai handed him a fresh cup of tea and a knowing look.
“Is he still upstairs?” he asked, voice low.
Fuma nodded.
Taki glanced over, one eyebrow raised. “I could talk to him.”
“No,” Fuma said gently, setting the cup down. “He’s not doing anything wrong. He just… needs time.”
Taki didn’t push either. He returned to his phone, but Fuma caught the way he glanced toward the stairs a minute later, worry hidden in the slouch of his shoulders.
They all cared—that wasn’t the problem.
Maki wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t cold. He was quiet, observant, and thoughtful in ways that surprised Fuma when he caught glimpses of it. He was also wary—of affection, of trust, of letting go. It had been that way since the beginning.
Harua had warmed to Yudai’s house immediately, all knees and grins and noisy joy. Taki had accepted Fuma just as quickly, even before he learned to call him Dad. But Maki… Maki had never let him in, not fully. Not yet.
Still, Fuma tried. Every day, in small, careful ways. One plate set at the table. One invitation. One gentle check-in. He never asked for more than Maki was willing to give. He just waited.
And sometimes—just sometimes—he saw the weight in Maki’s eyes begin to shift. Like maybe the boy was carrying something too heavy alone and hadn’t yet figured out how to set it down in someone else’s hands.
Fuma would be there when he did
That evening, after dinner, Maki came downstairs.
He didn’t say anything. He just picked at the leftovers in the fridge, heated them in the microwave, then sat at the edge of the dining table while everyone else was lounging in the living room.
Fuma passed him on his way to get a cup of water.
“Still warm enough?” he asked quietly, nodding at the plate.
Maki shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Fuma offered him a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re eating.”
Maki didn’t return the smile, but he didn’t look away either. That was enough.
Fuma moved past him, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair, resisting the ache in his chest that longed to do more.
One day, he thought.
One day.

Chapter Text

It started with a soft grunt.
Fuma was in the entryway, crouched down to line up Harua’s sneakers, when he heard a voice behind him.
“What time?”
He turned, surprised. Maki stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. His face was unreadable, but his voice—his voice had a question buried in it.
Fuma blinked. “Sorry?”
Maki looked away, jaw tense. “The exhibit. The one you talked about last week. What time is it open?”
Fuma stood slowly, careful not to let his surprise show too much. “Oh. Right. Um, weekends, it opens at ten. Are you… thinking of going?”
Another shrug. “Maybe.”
Fuma nodded, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, like his heart wasn’t beating a little too fast. “I’d love that. Just us, right?”
Maki didn’t answer directly. But he didn’t say no.

The car ride on Saturday morning was quiet.
Fuma didn’t try to fill the silence. He let the hum of the road and the morning radio do the work. Maki stared out the window, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves tugged low over his hands.
Fuma glanced over occasionally but kept his eyes on the road.
At the museum, Maki walked a step behind him, his expression neutral as they passed whitewashed walls and minimal signage. But as soon as they stepped into the first room—a soft, warm gallery filled with curved sculptures that seemed to move without moving—something shifted.
Maki drifted ahead.
He didn’t talk, not really. But he hovered near the pieces longer than expected, his eyes tracing every curve and shadow. Fuma stood beside him in silence, occasionally murmuring thoughts about the textures or angles, just enough to offer connection without pushing.
They circled the gallery slowly, two quiet figures in a quiet space.
And then—
“I like this one,” Maki said, almost to himself.
Fuma turned. The sculpture was a strange twisting of iron and glass—sharp angles melting into smooth edges. There was tension in it, but also grace.
“It reminds me of your sketches,” Fuma offered gently. “The way you layer things. Like you’re showing something underneath.”
Maki blinked at him.
“You saw those?”
“I did,” Fuma said, smiling softly. “You’re really talented, Maki. I mean that.”
Maki looked down at his shoes. Fuma let the moment breathe.
“Do you ever want to show me more?” Fuma asked.
Maki didn’t answer. But his ears turned a little red.

They stopped for lunch after—tiny bowls of soba at a hole-in-the-wall place nearby.
“I used to come here with your dad,” Fuma said, lifting his chopsticks. “Back when we were just friends. He hated the seats—too small for his knees.”
Maki huffed, something almost like a laugh.
Fuma smiled at the sound. “Thank you for coming with me today.”
Maki’s eyes flicked up, then down again. “It wasn’t bad.”
Fuma chuckled. “That’s high praise coming from you.”
Maki rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched—a half-smile, almost hidden.
They walked back to the car under a canopy of late-autumn trees, the breeze tugging at Maki’s sleeves, Fuma’s coat catching leaves in its folds.
“I don’t hate you,” Maki said suddenly, just before the car came into view.
Fuma froze, heart thudding.
“I never did,” Maki added. “I just… I didn’t know what to do with you.”
Fuma turned toward him slowly. “That’s okay. I didn’t always know what to do with myself either. I just knew I wanted to be here. For you. However you’d let me.”
Maki didn’t answer, but he stood a little closer on the drive home. Didn’t pull away when Fuma leaned over gently to ruffle his hair before unlocking the door.

That night, Fuma lay beside Yudai in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
“He came with me,” he whispered.
Yudai turned, surprised. “Maki?”
Fuma nodded. “Didn’t say much. But he let me be there.”
Yudai smiled softly in the dark. “He’s trying.”
“I know.” Fuma turned his face into the pillow. “I just want him to know I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t have to say it,” Yudai murmured. “You show it. Every day.”

A week later, Maki left a sketchbook on the kitchen table. Open, spine turned toward Fuma.
Inside was a drawing of the iron-and-glass sculpture from the museum. Under it, in soft pencil strokes, was the caption:
“Layers take time.”

Chapter Text

The drawing stayed on the kitchen shelf for days.
Fuma didn’t mention it. He didn’t frame the drawing or slide it into a folder for safekeeping, though his fingers itched to do so. He simply left it there, visible but untouched, as if it were a conversation still in progress.
Maki noticed, of course. Fuma caught him glancing at it more than once—eyes lingering on the pages, hands curling into his sleeves like he hadn’t quite decided if he regretted leaving it out.
Then one evening, he added another.
This time it was a charcoal piece: a cracked porcelain bowl fused back together with gold. The lines were fine, precise—deliberate, but trembling. Beneath it, in barely-there graphite, he’d written:
“Still beautiful.”
Fuma stood in front of it for a long moment. Then, ever so gently, he reached for a sticky note and pressed it beside the page.
Thank you for sharing this with me. It’s beautiful because it’s honest.
When Maki saw the note the next morning, he didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t take the page down either.

They began a quiet routine.
It wasn’t a conversation, not exactly. It was more like an exchange of offerings—a sketch for a note, a drawing for a quiet affirmation. Fuma responded to each one with care, never making a show of it, never calling attention to the act.
One afternoon, after Maki left for school, Fuma found a folded paper tucked into the back of the sketchbook. It wasn’t a drawing this time. Just three lines of blocky handwriting:
“Do you still want to go to that bookstore downtown?
The one with the art books.
I’m free this weekend.”
Fuma stared at it, heart blooming in his chest like something slow and shy and impossibly rare.
He wrote a reply in the margin:
“Only if you help me carry the books.”

The bookstore was old and narrow, with mismatched shelves that leaned slightly as if they’d grown weary with time. A dusty orange cat slept by the window. Jazz played low from a speaker somewhere behind the counter.
Maki moved through the aisles with the reverence of someone who lived in his own head. Fuma trailed behind, letting him lead, occasionally pointing out titles or holding out a book for his quiet approval.
They didn’t talk much, but the silences were easier now—softer, shared.
In the art section, Maki thumbed through a massive hardcover about sculpture and stopped at a page featuring a Japanese kintsugi artist.
“This,” he murmured. “I like this.”
Fuma leaned over. “The gold repairs?”
Maki nodded. “It’s not about hiding the break. It’s about making it part of the story.”
Fuma looked at him, struck by the quiet courage in those words.
“I think that’s what families do,” Fuma said softly. “They become part of each other’s stories. Even the cracks.”
Maki didn’t reply. But he let Fuma carry the book to the register.

They got hot chocolate afterward—thick and sweet, topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. Maki made a face when Fuma insisted on adding the cinnamon.
“That’s so weird.”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve had cinnamon with chocolate,” Fuma teased, nudging the cup toward him.
Maki rolled his eyes but took a sip. His nose crinkled.
“Still weird,” he mumbled. “But not bad.”
Fuma laughed, and Maki didn’t flinch at the sound.
Later, when they were walking back to the car, Maki asked, “Was it weird for you? Taking care of Harua after… after everything?”
Fuma was quiet a moment, then answered honestly. “Yes. It was hard. I felt like I was standing in someone else’s shoes. But then he held my hand one day, and I realized I could make the shoes fit—if I stopped trying to replace someone, and just learned to walk with him instead.”
Maki kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. “That’s… kind of lame.”
Fuma smiled. “Yeah. But it’s true.”
They didn’t speak again until they were in the car. Halfway home, Maki shifted in his seat.
“I don’t remember much about my mom,” he said. “I used to think… that if I let myself get close to you, I’d forget her completely.”
Fuma’s hands tightened around the wheel.
“I think about her all the time,” Maki added. “And I think that made me angry. Because she’s not here, and you are.”
Fuma swallowed. “It’s okay to feel that.”
“I know,” Maki said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”
Fuma glanced at him. “You just did.”
Maki looked away, but his shoulders weren’t so tense anymore.

That night, after dinner, Maki lingered in the living room while the others watched TV. He didn’t sit close, but he stayed in the same room—hoodie sleeves pushed back, feet curled under him, sketchbook in his lap.
Fuma didn’t say anything.
He just smiled and passed him a cinnamon cookie.
Maki took it with a quiet “Thanks” and didn’t leave until the credits rolled.

Chapter Text

The invitation arrived in Taki’s school bag—a thick envelope with gold-foiled letters spelling out "Winter Music Showcase." Inside, a flyer announced the performance date and a soft note from his choir instructor that read, “Your solo is the heart of this year's set. We’re proud of you.”
Fuma found it on the kitchen counter, folded neatly next to Taki’s planner.
“You have a solo?” he asked that evening as they all gathered for dinner.
Taki nodded, chewing slowly. “Yeah. Just one verse. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal,” Yudai said, voice warm but firm. “We’re all coming.”
Harua beamed. “I want to wear a tie!”
“You don’t need a tie,” Maki muttered.
“I want one anyway,” Harua grinned, nudging him. “Maybe you should wear one too.”
Maki gave him a long-suffering look, but Fuma saw the corners of his mouth twitch up. He turned his attention to Maki. “Would it be okay if we all went together? I know school events can feel… a little much.”
Maki shrugged, eyes on his rice. “I’ll go.”
Yudai raised a brow. “You sure?”
“I want to see him sing,” Maki muttered, stabbing at a piece of tofu. “That’s all.”
Fuma didn’t say anything, but he and Yudai caught each other’s eyes briefly, the message passed in silence. He said yes.

The night of the performance, the air was cold and sharp with the scent of frost. Fuma wrapped Harua in a scarf twice his size and made sure Maki’s jacket was zipped properly before they all piled into the car.
Taki was already backstage by the time they arrived. The auditorium buzzed with noise—parents murmuring, siblings fidgeting, and teachers herding performers into place.
They found seats near the front.
Maki sat between Fuma and Yudai. He was quiet, arms folded tightly, but he didn’t resist when Fuma leaned slightly in to point out the student art decorating the walls or to pass him a cough drop when someone behind them sneezed twice.
The lights dimmed.
Harua wiggled in his seat and then stilled, wide-eyed.
The show opened with a full ensemble number—bright, cheerful, the kind of thing meant to make parents cry and teachers beam. Fuma clapped along, sneaking glances at Maki. The boy was watching the stage carefully, his eyes following every movement.
Then, the lights softened. A spotlight landed at center stage.
Taki stepped forward.
His voice was low at first—tentative, hushed—then it soared. Not perfect, but raw. Honest. Beautiful.
Yudai’s eyes shimmered with pride. Harua let out a breathless “Wow.” Fuma placed a hand lightly on Maki’s knee.
Maki didn’t move.
When Taki’s verse ended, the crowd erupted in applause. The lights rose again. The next group came on.
But Maki didn’t clap. He just looked down at his lap, silent.
Fuma leaned close. “Are you okay?”
“I didn’t know he could sing like that,” Maki said, voice rough with something unspoken. “I didn’t know he could… feel so much out loud.”
Fuma gave his knee a gentle squeeze. “He’s growing up. You all are. It’s hard to keep up sometimes.”
Maki didn’t say anything. But when they stood to clap at the end of the performance, he was the first on his feet.

At home, Yudai ordered late-night ramen for everyone. The table was filled with laughter and slurping and chaotic chopstick battles between Harua and Taki.
Fuma caught Maki smiling—real, not hesitant—and felt something settle in his chest.
Later, after everyone had gone to bed, Maki hovered in the hallway outside the kitchen. Fuma was rinsing mugs when he heard footsteps.
“You still have that cinnamon chocolate mix?” Maki asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Fuma turned, surprised. “I do.”
“Can we make some?”
Fuma smiled. “Of course.”
They stood together by the stove, quiet but not awkward. Fuma handed Maki the cinnamon shaker, and Maki added a little more than necessary, smirking when Fuma raised an eyebrow.
“It’s still weird,” Maki said.
“You love it.”
Maki didn’t deny it.
When the cups were full and steaming, they stood at the counter, side by side, sipping quietly.
“Thanks for tonight,” Maki said suddenly. “For not… making a big deal out of everything.”
Fuma looked at him, puzzled. “It was a big deal.”
“I mean…” Maki paused. “You don’t force stuff. Even when I’m being… me.”
Fuma tilted his head. “Being you is never the problem, Maki.”
Maki stared down at his mug. “I think I was scared that if I let you in, it meant I was letting someone else go. But it’s not like that.”
“No,” Fuma said softly. “It’s not.”
There was a long silence, filled only by the ticking of the wall clock.
And then—
“Do you want to go to the movies next weekend?”
Fuma blinked.
Maki didn’t look at him, but his ears were bright red. “Just you and me. If you’re free.”
Fuma’s breath caught.
“I’d love to.”
Maki gave a tiny nod. “Cool.”

Upstairs, Maki stood outside his bedroom door for a long moment before slipping inside.
Fuma leaned against the wall just outside the kitchen, mug warm in his hand, heart full in his chest.
The bridge was being built.
Brick by careful brick.
And Maki… Maki had laid the next one down himself.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzly, with the kind of cold that settled under your coat no matter how tightly you zipped it. Maki stood in the hallway, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, fidgeting near the door.
Fuma joined him, wrapping a scarf around his neck.
“You ready?” he asked, voice soft.
Maki gave a small nod. “Do you… want to get lunch after?”
Fuma’s heart tugged, but he kept his voice even. “Sure. You have a place in mind?”
Maki hesitated. “There’s that curry spot near the station. The one with the window seats.”
Fuma smiled. “Perfect.”
It was the smallest thing—an ordinary Saturday, a casual plan. But Fuma knew better. This wasn’t small. This was the kind of invitation that took courage. Maki had extended something fragile between them, and Fuma cradled it like glass.

They sat near the back of the theater, half a row to themselves. Maki chose a science fiction flick, something loud and strange and full of impossible things. Fuma didn’t understand half of it, but he watched the light flicker across Maki’s face instead.
Somewhere in the second act, Maki leaned a little closer.
Not much—just enough that their shoulders touched.
Fuma didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just let the contact settle like breath, like warmth in the dark.

The curry place was cozy and smelled like spices and sweet potatoes. Maki ordered for them both without asking, then looked slightly embarrassed after.
“I just figured… you’d want the same as last time.”
Fuma smiled into his tea. “Yeah…thank you.”
They ate quietly. Maki picked at his naan and asked questions about Harua’s homework, rolled his eyes at something Taki had done last week, and even cracked a joke about Fuma’s terrible handwriting when he signed the bill.
Fuma laughed, full and real.
On the walk home, the wind picked up. Maki pulled his hood up and glanced sideways.
“You don’t mind doing stuff like this?” he asked suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Just you and me. Without Dad or Harua or Taki.”
Fuma slowed his steps. “I love it. I like being with you.”
Maki was quiet for a while. His sneakers scuffed at wet leaves on the sidewalk.
“You try a lot,” he said at last. “Even when I was being kind of… awful. You kept trying.”
Fuma’s chest tightened. “You weren’t awful, Maki.”
Maki shrugged. “Still. I made it hard.”
“You were hurting. That’s not the same as being cruel.”
They stopped at the corner where the neighborhood path curved into their street. Maki looked down at the ground, then up at Fuma—really looked at him.
“I don’t know when it changed,” Maki murmured. “But I’m glad it did.”
Fuma’s voice nearly caught. “Me too.”
Then, like he was saying it to the wind or the sky or to no one at all, Maki said quietly—
“I’m glad you’re my dad.”
Fuma froze.
Maki was still staring at the street. His cheeks were pink, and his voice was tight, but the words had come out whole. Honest.
Fuma swallowed once.
Twice.
Then, gently—gently—he stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Maki’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
Maki didn’t flinch.
He leaned into it.
Just for a moment.
Fuma’s voice was steady but full of warmth. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
Maki nodded, fast and quiet, like if he said anything else he might take it back. But he didn’t.
He didn’t.
And when they reached the house, he stepped inside first—and waited for Fuma to follow.

Later, when Yudai asked how the movie went, Fuma only smiled.
“Good,” he said simply. “It was good.”
And Maki, from the couch, didn’t contradict him.

Chapter Text

The shift wasn’t dramatic.
There was no big speech. No tearful declarations. No music swelling beneath a hug.
It started the next morning.
Fuma came down early, as usual, to start the coffee. Harua was still asleep, curled like a shrimp under his blanket. Yudai had left a note about running errands with Taki. The house was quiet.
Fuma opened the kitchen cabinet and blinked.
There, on the shelf above the mugs, sat a new cinnamon shaker. A fresh one. Unopened.
There was no note. No drawing this time. Just the unspoken care of someone who had noticed he’d run out.
He stood still for a moment, hands warm from the mug he hadn’t even poured yet.
Maki had noticed.

Later that week, Taki got sick—not terribly, but enough to cling to Fuma for a day and curl up with a hot pack and cartoons. Fuma stayed home with him, cancelling a work meeting, dozing on the couch with Taki tucked under his arm.
Maki came home from school and saw them like that.
He didn’t say anything.
But that evening, after Taki finally drifted off upstairs, Fuma found a folded blanket draped over the couch where he’d been lying—and a new pack of cough drops on the table beside it.
He didn’t ask.
But the next morning, he made Maki’s rice just the way he liked it—a soft omelette folded over the top, seaweed crumbles on the side. No one had to mention it.
They were building a language that didn’t rely on words.

The next weekend, it was Harua’s turn.
He had a school project that required group work, and the group bailed last minute, leaving him stuck with a model to build and half the supplies missing.
Yudai was working late.
Fuma offered to help, but it was Maki who stepped in.
“I got it,” he said, already pulling open drawers. “You just need cardboard and a hot glue gun, right?”
Harua looked surprised. “You know how to build models?”
Maki shrugged. “I used to do them with my mom.”
He didn’t flinch when he said it. And when Harua nodded slowly, respectful and quiet, Fuma saw something invisible pass between them. Not just memory—understanding.
They worked side-by-side at the table for over an hour. Fuma brought snacks and watched them from the kitchen—Harua laughing, Maki grumbling, the two of them nudging each other like they'd always been brothers.

Later that night, once everyone had gone to bed, Yudai stepped out of the bathroom and caught Fuma leaning against the hallway wall, smiling like he couldn’t stop.
Yudai raised a brow. “What?”
Fuma shook his head, eyes glassy. “He called me Dad last week.”
Yudai didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.
He walked over and touched Fuma’s arm. “And now?”
Fuma let out a breath, one hand resting over his chest like he was holding something precious there. “Now he shows me. Every day.”

The small things continued.
Maki started setting the table without being asked.
He gave Fuma the last dumpling on the plate, even when Harua begged for it.
He asked once—very casually—if Fuma had eaten lunch that day, then slid half his sandwich across the counter without a word.
They were small things.
But they added up.
Until one day, Fuma found himself standing in the doorway to Maki’s room, watching him sketch by the window, headphones on, the softest line of a smile on his face.
Maki glanced up. “You need something?”
Fuma shook his head. “Just checking in.”
Maki nodded, then returned to his drawing.
Fuma stepped away, heart full.
Family was being built in the background—quiet as breath, steady as dawn.

Chapter Text

It started with Harua.
He bounded into the living room one Sunday morning, hair sticking out in all directions and socks mismatched, holding up a flyer with both hands like it was a prize.
“Let’s go here!” he said, eyes wide. “It’s a winter market! Taki’s school band is playing. There’s food and lights and even a fire pit!”
Fuma blinked at the flyer. “When is it?”
“Today!”
Yudai groaned from the couch, where his coffee hadn’t quite reached his bloodstream. “Now?”
“In like three hours,” Harua said, practically vibrating. “Plenty of time!”
Fuma smiled gently. “What do you think, Maki?”
Maki was curled up on the armchair beside the bookshelf, hoodie sleeves half covering his hands. He shrugged. “If everyone’s going, I’ll go too.”
Harua fist-pumped. “Family thing!”
Fuma’s eyes flicked toward Maki.
Maki didn’t correct him.

By the time they arrived, the clouds had cleared into a soft silver, and the smell of roasting chestnuts and sweet soy filled the air. Strings of paper lanterns swayed between trees, and the sound of flutes and soft drums drifted through the wind.
They walked together in a loose pack—Yudai and Taki drifting ahead to find his bandmates, Harua tugging Fuma’s arm toward the booths with handmade ornaments, and Maki somewhere in the middle, hands in his pockets but watching everything.
“You cold?” Fuma asked, nudging him gently.
“I’m okay,” Maki said. “This is kinda nice.”
“Yeah?”
Maki shrugged again. But this time, it felt like less of a defense and more of a… reflex.
They passed a booth selling handcrafted books. Fuma paused, flipping through a tiny sketch journal stitched with indigo thread.
“You like that one?” Maki asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Fuma said, more to himself than anyone.
They moved on.
But half an hour later, as they gathered by the food trucks, Maki nudged a small paper bag into Fuma’s hand.
Fuma looked at him.
Maki didn’t meet his eyes. “You liked it.”
Fuma opened it and saw the journal—the indigo-stitched one, carefully wrapped in tissue.
“I…” Fuma started.
“It’s just paper,” Maki said quickly, but his voice was quiet.
Fuma placed a hand over Maki’s shoulder, the journal against his chest. “Thank you.”
Maki gave a short nod and turned toward the fire pit, eyes squinting like the smoke was getting to him.

The sun dipped, and fairy lights came on.
Taki’s performance began, a brass piece that turned surprisingly emotional halfway through. His friends were laughing at the start, but by the end, everyone was listening—really listening.
When the applause faded, Yudai was first to clap. Fuma and Harua followed, cheering wildly.
Maki didn’t clap right away.
But he was standing tall.
After the final piece, Taki came jogging up, cheeks red from the cold and from attention. Harua leapt into a hug.
“You were so cool!” he said.
Taki laughed. “I messed up the solo.”
“No one noticed,” Yudai assured, clapping his back.
Then Taki turned to Maki. “Well?”
“You didn’t suck,” Maki said.
Taki smirked. “You’re practically crying.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Fuma chuckled. “I saw a glisten.”
Maki rolled his eyes. “Must have been the wind.”
They all laughed.
Fuma looked around—the four of them in a messy, warm circle of sound and breath and winter air.
And then—
“Dad,” Maki said.
Fuma turned.
Maki wasn’t looking at him—not directly—but his voice was clear.
“Can we stop for food on the way home? I’m starving.”
The world tilted just slightly.
Fuma blinked.
Harua didn’t even pause. “Yes! Can we get ramen? Please?”
Taki chimed in with suggestions, Yudai groaning about calories, but Fuma… he just stood there for a second, stunned still by the sound of one syllable.
Maki had said it.
Not in private. Not quietly. Not tucked into a safe moment.
He’d said it where it mattered—out loud. In front of everyone.
Like it had always been true.
Fuma walked beside him on the way back to the car, hands in his coat pockets, the indigo journal pressed between his arm and ribs.
“Hey,” he said softly, just for Maki to hear. “You okay?”
Maki glanced at him, brows raised. “Yeah. Why?”
Fuma smiled. “No reason.”
But his chest felt wide open. Like light had slipped in through the cracks and decided to stay.

That night, at home, Fuma placed the sketch journal on the desk in his room.
He hadn’t written a single word yet.
But he opened the first page and wrote two.
“For Maki.”
Then he closed it and left the rest blank, ready for what would come.

Chapter Text

Sunday was slow.
Rain tapped gently at the windows. The sky was washed in pale gray, and the world outside seemed to move just a little slower—as if the whole neighborhood had exhaled.
Inside the house, it was warm.
Yudai was curled on the couch with a novel half-forgotten in his lap. Fuma had pulled out the rice flour to make dumplings by hand, because he claimed kneading dough helped him think. Harua sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of math homework he was definitely not doing.
And Maki?
Maki was upstairs, his door cracked open just wide enough for sound to drift in.
“Why is it so quiet today?” Harua asked suddenly, pencil tapping on his blank worksheet.
“Quiet’s good sometimes,” Yudai said, sipping his tea. “Means things are… okay.”
Fuma looked up from the dough. “You don’t like quiet?”
“I don’t mind it,” Harua shrugged. “Just feels like… everything’s soft today.”
Fuma smiled at that. “Soft isn’t bad either.”
Harua mulled that over, then stood. “Can I go bother Maki?”
Fuma laughed. “You don’t need permission. Just knock first.”
Harua padded up the stairs, socks silent against the wood. He hesitated outside Maki’s door, then knocked twice.
“Yeah?” came the reply.
Harua peeked in. “You busy?”
Maki sat at his desk, sketchbook open, pencil in hand. “Not really.”
“Can I come in?”
Maki glanced over, and something about his face softened. “Yeah.”
Harua climbed onto the bed, cross-legged. “Are you drawing?”
Maki turned the page away slightly. “Not showing you yet.”
Harua grinned. “So it’s good.”
Maki rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. He set the pencil down and turned to face him.
They were quiet for a moment, both listening to the faint sounds of Fuma humming in the kitchen, the clink of a bowl, and Yudai flipping a page downstairs.
“You know,” Harua said slowly, “at first I was scared you’d never like us.”
Maki blinked. “What?”
“When we first moved in,” Harua said. “You were always quiet. Not in a shy way—just like… like you had a wall. And I thought, maybe it meant you didn’t want us here.”
Maki looked down at his lap. “I didn’t know how to… I guess I didn’t know how to be a family again.”
Harua nodded thoughtfully. “Me neither.”
Maki tilted his head. “Really?”
“I mean, I had Fuma,” Harua said. “He’s always been everything. But it was just the two of us. And suddenly we had Taki and Yudai. And you. I didn’t know if I was supposed to change.”
“You didn’t,” Maki said.
Harua gave him a look. “You didn’t either. You just got better at being yourself.”
That caught Maki off guard.
He stared at Harua for a long beat. Then he smiled—just a little.
“You say weird things for a ten-year-old.”
Harua beamed. “I hang out with adults.”
They both laughed.
Then Harua added, quieter, “I’m glad we’re family now.”
Maki looked at him.
He meant it. Not as a polite kid thing. But he really meant it.
Maki reached over and nudged his socked foot against Harua’s. “Me too.”

Downstairs, Fuma finished shaping the last dumpling and wiped his hands on a dish towel.
Yudai stood behind him, arms slipping around his waist.
“You’ve been smiling all morning,” Yudai murmured.
Fuma leaned back into the warmth. “It’s the weather.”
“Liar.”
Fuma huffed a quiet laugh. “I was thinking about Maki. About last week.”
“The movie?”
“And after,” Fuma said. “It’s different now. He looks at me like I’m… not temporary.”
“You were never temporary,” Yudai said gently.
“But he didn’t know that.”
Yudai didn’t argue. Just held him a little tighter.
“You did good,” he said.
Fuma turned in his arms, resting his forehead against Yudai’s chest. “We all did.”

That evening, after dinner, Harua asked if they could all watch a movie together—"Like, on the couch. Under blankets. A real family movie night.”
No one said no.
They ended up tangled together, limbs everywhere. Yudai with Harua tucked against his side, Fuma beside them with a hand on Harua’s foot, Taki sprawled like a cat over the armrest, and Maki seated on the floor, leaning back casually between Fuma’s knees.
Halfway through the movie, Maki shifted slightly.
Without a word, he reached up and rested a hand against Fuma’s knee.
Fuma didn’t react outwardly—just let the warmth of that gesture carry him through the rest of the film.
Somewhere behind him, Yudai caught his eye and smiled.
Fuma smiled back.
On days like this, there was no mistaking it:
They were a family. Whole. Woven together by choice, by time, by care.
And it was the light that stayed.

Chapter Text

The idea came on a Thursday evening, soft and casual.
They were finishing dinner—Taki rinsing dishes, Maki picking the last bits of ginger pork from his bowl, Fuma wiping down the table.
“I was thinking,” Fuma said, “maybe we could take a trip this weekend.”
Both boys looked up.
“Just the three of us,” he added quickly. “Somewhere quiet. I found a campsite near Lake Azumi. We could go hiking, make dinner over a fire… sleep under the stars. What do you think?”
Taki blinked. “Like camping?”
“Yeah.”
Maki’s brows furrowed. “With tents?”
Fuma smiled. “I’ll set them up. You just bring your hoodie and bad attitude.”
Taki grinned. “I’m in.”
Maki looked uncertain—not dismissive, just quiet. Fuma didn’t push.
“Think about it,” he said gently. “I just thought it’d be nice to get away for a bit. No phones. No school. Just the three of us.”
Maki looked at his empty bowl for a moment, then gave a soft nod.
“Okay,” he said.

They left early Saturday morning.
Yudai stood in the driveway, arms crossed, watching them pack the car with the kind of resigned amusement only a parent could muster.
“You sure you’ll be okay with both of them?” he teased.
Fuma leaned over the driver’s seat. “I’ll return them in one piece. Maybe a little muddier.”
Yudai walked over and pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re a good dad.”
Fuma paused just long enough to hold the words. Then nodded.
“I’m trying to be.”

The drive was quiet but easy.
Fuma let the boys choose the music. Taki DJ’d from the passenger seat while Maki, sprawled in the back, hummed softly to songs he claimed not to like.
When they reached the campsite, the air was already laced with pine and lake water.
Fuma set up the tents while the boys explored the trees around them. Maki tested every stick for sword potential. Taki skipped rocks across the water and made up a scoring system that only he understood.
They made curry over the fire, and Fuma let Taki handle the spices. Maki stirred the pot with a stick he insisted was his “chef’s wand.”
By the time the stars came out, they were all sitting on a log, bellies full, wrapped in their respective hoodies.
“This was a good idea,” Taki said, mouth still full of roasted marshmallow.
Fuma chuckled. “Glad to hear it.”
Maki didn’t say anything—but he nudged Fuma’s shoulder lightly with his own.

That night, after Taki fell asleep snoring beside the lantern, Fuma and Maki stayed up just a little longer outside.
The fire had died down to soft coals, and the night was thick with cicadas and breeze.
Maki sat cross-legged, sketchbook in his lap.
“You brought it,” Fuma said, surprised.
Maki shrugged. “It’s the only one with that paper I like.”
Fuma smiled. “Can I see?”
Maki hesitated. Then, without a word, turned the book toward him.
The drawings were simple but detailed—trees, the curve of the lake, the edge of Taki’s profile in half-shadow. And on one page: a figure crouched by a campfire, hands gentle, eyes soft.
It was Fuma.
He didn’t say anything.
But Maki shifted, quieter now. “I wanted to remember it like this.”
Fuma’s heart cracked open in the way it always did when love appeared unannounced.
“I’m glad you came,” he said softly.
Maki looked up at the stars.
“I’m glad I have… this.”
He didn’t say family.
He didn’t need to.

In the morning, they made pancakes on the portable skillet. Taki burned two but claimed it was “part of the rustic experience.” Maki used tree bark to plate his.
They hiked down the side of the lake, Maki leading at first—surprisingly confident. He pointed out rocks, warned them of slippery paths, and even caught Taki’s arm once when he nearly tripped.
Fuma didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.
Watching them—side by side, teasing, quiet, at ease—was enough.

On the drive home, Taki fell asleep in the backseat, curled against a pile of jackets. Maki sat up front, knees pulled to his chest.
“Thanks for this,” he said suddenly.
Fuma glanced at him. “For the trip?”
“For all of it.”
He looked straight ahead, not meeting Fuma’s eyes.
Fuma turned back to the road, his throat a little tight.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.
“I know.”
Maki rested his head against the window.
“But I wanted to anyway.”

That night, when they got home, Fuma unpacked the bags while Yudai greeted them like they'd been gone for a month. Harua peppered them with questions. Taki bragged about fire-building. Maki disappeared upstairs but came back five minutes later, barefoot and sleepy, to hand Fuma his sketchbook.
“You forgot it in the car,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Maki didn’t leave right away.
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward Yudai, then back to Fuma.
Then he stepped forward and hugged him.
Quickly. Not awkward, not overthought.
Just real.
“Night, Dad,” he said.
Then he was gone, upstairs, door softly shut behind him.
Fuma stood there a moment, still holding the sketchbook.
Yudai came over, brow raised. “You okay?”
Fuma laughed under his breath. “I think I might cry.”
Yudai leaned in, smiling. “Permission granted.”

Chapter Text

The house was still.
Too still.
Fuma stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, eyes flicking to the door. No backpacks or shoes dumped by the genkan. No Harua’s sketchy math sheets on the floor. No Taki singing off-key upstairs. No Maki’s door cracked open just enough for music to slip through.
“They’re really gone,” he murmured.
Yudai came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Fuma’s waist. “Just for the weekend.”
Fuma leaned back against him, exhaling. “The silence is suspicious.”
Yudai laughed into his neck. “You’ll get used to it.”
They stood like that for a while, breathing in the quiet. It had been a long time since they’d had a house to themselves. Since before Harua came to live with Fuma. Before all the routines, carpools, bento prep, and late-night emergency runs for poster paper.
“You have plans?” Yudai asked, voice low.
Fuma smirked. “Depends. You want to leave the house?”
Yudai rested his chin on Fuma’s shoulder. “Not really.”
“Good. Me neither.”

They didn’t do much that day.
Fuma made coffee slowly, with both hands cradling the warm ceramic like it was sacred. Yudai read on the couch, toes brushing Fuma’s thigh lazily whenever he passed. There were no clocks, no deadlines, no buzzing notifications. Just sunlight spilling across the hardwood and the smell of freshly roasted coffee in the kitchen.
At some point, they both ended up in bed, half-dressed, curled around each other like they used to in the earliest months of being together—when everything still felt like a secret, tender and new.
Yudai lay on his side, fingers tracing slow patterns along Fuma’s chest. “You ever think about how we got here?”
“All the time,” Fuma murmured, eyes closed.
“I didn’t think we would, you know. Back then.”
“I know,” Fuma said softly. “Me neither.”
There had been so much hesitation in the beginning. Not just from the kids, but from themselves. Trying to blend two broken pieces of different puzzles. Trying to offer love without crowding it. Trying to be enough for everyone.
“I think we’re doing okay,” Yudai said.
Fuma opened his eyes. “Better than okay.”
Yudai nodded. “The kids… they’re happy.”
“You’re happy?”
Yudai’s hand stilled. “Yeah. I really am.”
Fuma turned to face him fully, resting his forehead against Yudai’s.
“I love you,” he said. Quiet. Certain.
Yudai’s throat worked around something thick. He let the silence sit there a second longer, then said it back—not just a response, but an echo, warm and heavy with meaning.
“I love you too.”

That night, they cooked together—not out of obligation, but for the joy of it. They made nabe from scratch, laughing when Fuma nearly dropped the pot lid and Yudai insisted on adding way too much garlic.
They ate at the table, knees brushing, candles flickering between them even though they didn’t need them. Just because it felt nice.
After dinner, they slow-danced in the living room. No music. Just the rhythm of their breathing, the creak of the floorboards, and the hush of wind against the window.
“Did you ever imagine this?” Yudai whispered. “Us. Like this.”
“No,” Fuma said. “Not this exactly. But I dreamed of something like it. Of someone like you.”
Yudai pressed his lips to Fuma’s temple. “I used to think love had to be loud. Dramatic. Fireworks or something.”
“It’s not.”
“No,” Yudai agreed. “It’s this.”
Fuma’s hands tightened slightly around Yudai’s back. “It’s you waking me up with coffee and never forgetting the extra sugar. It’s us remembering Maki’s weird allergy to fake pineapple. It’s Taki texting both of us when he’s sick of school, and Harua drawing little comics of our dinners. It’s you remembering which socks I hate. It’s slow mornings and still nights and... this.”
Yudai closed his eyes. “It’s wanting the ordinary. With you.”

Later, curled up in bed, Yudai whispered, “What do you think they’ll remember? When they’re older.”
Fuma thought for a long moment.
“I hope they remember we tried,” he said. “That we didn’t give up. That we showed up. Even when it was messy. Even when we were tired.”
Yudai nodded.
“And that we loved each other,” Fuma added, quieter.
“They’ll remember that,” Yudai said. “They already do.”

The next morning, Harua sent a photo of his pancake with a thumbs-up emoji. Taki sent a voice note: “We didn’t burn the house down, if you’re wondering. Also, I think Maki misses you. He’s being quiet and weird again.”
Fuma laughed, heart aching and full.
Yudai passed him a mug of coffee and kissed the top of his head.
“Guess the quiet was nice while it lasted.”
Fuma leaned against him. “I like the noise too.”
Yudai nodded. “As long as it’s ours.”
And it was.
All of it—the quiet, the chaos, the ordinary, and the soft.
The love.

Chapter Text

It all started with a picture frame.
Specifically, one that Harua brought home from school—glitter-covered, slightly crooked, with a heart drawn in the corner and the words "MY FAMIRY <3" written in bright orange marker across the top.
“It’s for a photo of all of us,” he announced proudly, holding it up like it was a masterpiece.
Which, frankly, it was.
Fuma crouched down to examine it. “You spelled ‘family’ wrong.”
“I ran out of Ls,” Harua shrugged. “But the heart makes it clear.”
Taki snorted from the couch. “I give us three tries before we give up.”
Yudai raised an eyebrow. “You think we’ll even get that far?”
Maki, who had been silently chewing on an apple, deadpanned, “We’re not photogenic.”
“I’m photogenic,” Fuma said, offended.
“You blink in every picture,” Yudai reminded him.
“That’s intentional. It’s called soft mystery.”
“Okay, tragic poet,” Taki said, stretching. “Let’s do this.”

The first attempt started well enough.
Yudai set up the tripod in the living room. Harua insisted on arranging the couch pillows “aesthetically.” Fuma changed shirts twice. Maki brought Harua’s drawing frame and set it in the center of the coffee table like a shrine.
“Dog or no dog?” Taki asked, crouching beside the family pet, Maki’s golden retriever named Miso, who was currently chewing on the corner of someone’s sock.
“He’s part of the family,” Fuma said.
“What about Harua’s demon cat?” Maki asked. “The one that hates all of us?”
“Harua, thoughts?”
Harua held up said cat, Taro, who meowed like he was being sacrificed.
“Good talk,” Yudai said. “We’re including them both.”

Attempt #1: Miso licked Harua mid-shot. Fuma blinked. Taki held up a peace sign. Maki looked like he was trying to astral project out of the frame. Taro scratched Fuma’s thigh and bolted.
Attempt #2: Everyone smiled. Taro leapt onto the camera.
Attempt #3: Miso barked. Harua barked back. Fuma dropped a cookie.
Attempt #4: Somehow Maki ended up halfway off the couch. Yudai was caught mid-sneeze. Harua’s glitter frame fell over.
Attempt #5: No one moved. No one blinked. It was almost perfect… until they realized Maki was holding a spoon in the shot for no reason.
“WHY?” Taki shouted, flopping onto the floor.
“I forgot I had it!” Maki yelled back.
“You were posing with a spoon.”
“I panic under pressure!”

By attempt #7, Taki had put sunglasses on Miso, Harua was wearing a feather boa he found in a drawer, and Fuma had fully accepted his role as Chaos Dad by wearing a bright pink oven mitt “for flair.”
Yudai snapped a photo.
Everyone looked insane.
“I like this one,” Harua said immediately.
Taki nodded. “Frame it.”
“It’s not even centered,” Fuma laughed.
“It’s us,” Yudai said, smiling.
Harua held up the glitter frame again. “It fits.”

Later that night, after everyone had changed back into pajamas and the pets had mercifully calmed down, Fuma printed the photo and slid it into Harua’s frame.
It was a disaster.
Taro’s tail was mid-air. Miso was mid-sneeze. Maki was visibly restraining a laugh. Taki had his hands over Harua’s eyes. Fuma’s mouth was open like he’d just yelled something inappropriate. Yudai was the only one looking at the camera.
But they were all touching—shoulder to shoulder, arms looped, hands resting on each other’s backs. Messy. Loud. Unscripted.
Real.

The photo took its place on the bookshelf between Harua’s painted rock collection and Taki’s old soccer trophy. It didn’t match anything. It wasn’t perfectly lit or edited.
But it was them.
Every blinking, barking, boa-wearing version of them.
And that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The moment the sea came into view, Harua screamed.
“WE’RE HERE!”
He nearly launched himself over his seatbelt in the back of the van, arms flailing with the drama of a B-list movie star.
“WE’RE GONNA SEE THE OCEAN!”
“You’ve seen the ocean before,” Maki muttered beside him, but he was smiling, soft and amused.
“I forgot what it smells like,” Harua said, already rolling down the window and inhaling dramatically. “Like… fish! And destiny!”
Taki laughed from the front. “You’ve been watching anime again, haven’t you?”
“Only inspirational ones.”
Fuma looked over at Yudai in the driver’s seat. “It’s going to be a long weekend.”
Yudai chuckled. “You love it.”
Fuma sighed, watching their three kids in the rearview mirror—Harua’s sunhat too big for his head, Taki already tying up his hair into a bun, and Maki holding onto the cooler like it was sacred cargo.
“I do.”

They stayed in a weathered little rental house that smelled like old wood and sea salt, just a ten-minute walk from the beach. It was the kind of place with mismatched cups, creaky floorboards, and a note from the owner in flowery handwriting that said, Please don’t feed the seagulls—they hold grudges.
Perfect.
The first thing they did was dump their bags, throw on swimsuits, and charge down to the shore. The second thing they did was immediately get sunblock in someone’s eye.
“Maki, hold still—”
“I am holding still; you’re stabbing my face—”
“That’s your forehead—”
“It’s all connected!”
Meanwhile, Taki was already chest-deep in the waves, yelling back at them. “You’re missing it! The water is amazing!”
“Does it have jellyfish?!” Harua shouted, toeing the foam like it might bite.
“Yes!” Taki yelled gleefully.
“No!!”
Fuma wrapped an arm around Yudai’s waist. “I’m not sure if this counts as relaxing or a survival game.”
Yudai grinned. “Either way, I packed band-aids.”

They collected seashells. Fuma held Harua’s hand as he narrated each one like a museum guide.
They played beach volleyball. Taki spiked a ball that nearly took Maki’s head off. Maki retaliated with a water balloon sneak attack that drenched everyone, including a very unamused seagull.
They buried Yudai in the sand. Harua gave him a tail. Taki gave him boobs. Fuma gave him a kiss on the cheek and promised to dig him out eventually.
They ate too many snacks. Miso stole a sandwich, and they all lit sparklers as the sun went down.

The next morning, Taki used the self-timer to take a photo on the beach—all of them squinting into the sun, Harua holding a conch shell, Maki flashing an actual peace sign this time, Fuma grinning mid-laugh, and Yudai with his hand around his whole world.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was full.
There was, without a doubt, room for one more.
Always.
[END]