(you can pm me here or on plurk if you'd like to beforehand, but also if you'd just like to drop something at my doorstep with no preamble please do!!)
[ He laughs, soft and musical as he swipes a thumb beneath suspiciously dry eyes. ]
If Isshiki-san and I go to Pizza-La together, I'll bring you and buy every Featherman pizza they have. [ Maruki tickles at his ribs until the persistent worry scrawled across his young features finally melts into laughter too. ] Come on. We have a whole day to do whatever we want!
[ Which means Akechi does get ramen for breakfast. And for lunch. Not for dinner, though; Maruki sets him up on the counter, lets him eat little bits of mushroom as he makes one gigantic okonomiyaki for them to share. Halfway through dinner, Rumi calls from her hotel room as she gets ready to go out for drinks with her colleagues. They chatter with her on speakerphone the whole time, and Maruki keeps waiting for him to mention the dreams, but–
He doesn't. Thank god. Maybe he's forgotten.
Hopefully he's forgotten.
There are tears when Rumi has to go, of course, and reassurances that she'll be home in a couple days, that she'll talk to both of them in the morning. More tears, more reassurances after she's hung up to go about her night; they don't eat another bite after that, and Maruki winds up with a lapful of overemotional, overtired child, clinging and asking again and again if he'll have to go to another home if she doesn't come back.
They wind up in the hall, Akechi in Maruki's arms so he can be held up to the photo of his mother. Then on the floor beneath it, so they can talk quietly about home and family with her still nearby. Then the photo comes off the wall, frame and all, and joins them on the couch, so she can watch Featherman with them before bed. Maruki doesn't know how to say no. Doesn't know how to make it sink in that she never wanted to leave him, and they don't either.
Maybe it will never sink in. Maybe there will always be a piece of his son's heart mired in that pain, and there's nothing he can do about it but hope that he can still love wholly anyway.
A walk down to the conbini for ice cream, a while spent chatting with the neighbor across the hall and her dog on their way back. A bath, a long goodnight to the photo rehung on the wall, a longer one relayed via text message to Rumi. A token attempt at getting Akechi to sleep in his own room, and an easy relenting when he crawls into their bed twenty minutes later.
Maruki tells him stories about a brave prince who could conquer any challenge set before him until he falls asleep tucked under his arm, and when he finally drifts off to sleep himself a couple hours later–
He dreams not of a castle, but of a luxury condo, sleek and minimalist and paid for by a power much higher than either of the people inside.
Akechi kneels on a bathroom floor, forehead resting against forearm slung over the rim of a toilet. He's almost concerningly slight – when I'm older, I don't like to eat that much – and his back heaves as he pants, spluttering and choking on his own saliva as he tries not to retch again.
Maruki kneels right next to him. Dressed smartly – too smartly, nicer than he ever has in his life save for his wedding day, pressed trousers and a crisp white lab coat. Clean-shaven with neat, slicked back hair. He has Akechi's hair gathered gently at his nape, lank with sweat, his other hand wiping a wet cloth gingerly over his mouth and chin before he drops it to rest his palm between his shoulder blades. A quiet shushing, a soothing rub up and down – whatever words he's murmured can't be made out through the dreamtime haze.
A noise rips from Akechi's throat, so loud it only sounds as ringing in his ears. He's pushing away, pressing his back against the glass door of the shower, shaking his head. Maruki stays kneeling in front of him, listens patiently to whatever words tumble from his lips, and he must be at least ten years older than the child tucked safely beneath Maruki's arm, but he looks so young, so frightened in fits and flashes before he tries to school himself out of it.
All they do is talk. Maruki can't hear a word. There's an oppressive near-silence that thrums through the whole of the dream, like bird wings thumping against a cage.
All they do is talk, until a weak sunrise breaks through the window above the shower, and only then does he manage to help Akechi to his feet.
Maruki's eyes flutter open, sunbeams filtering in through an open window in
a shoebox apartment shared by two
a farmhouse during a time of war
a marble-white palace
a fog-covered small town
a traditional tatami room
a rural house blanketed in snow
a lonely shoebox apartment for only one
a cafe in a Tokyo suburb
a little villa in a vibrant European city
a nondescript room in a rehab facility
a castle
the cramped, happy home of the only family he's ever known, and Akechi stirs awake beneath his arm. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stares into the sun. kill me whenever.
He could cry - almost does. A balled up fist rubs at his eyes so he doesn't. He's literally so grown. ]
I will - okay. I won't be - I'm really happy. Now you two can go to Pizza-La together - it's okay. I'll buy it for you. I have 100 yen.
[They're gonna be able to share a sick slice of pizza with that dough.]
Oh, wait. I dropped it yesterday. Um - I'll find it, and then you can have pizza. I'll find it before you have to pay bills.
no subject
If Isshiki-san and I go to Pizza-La together, I'll bring you and buy every Featherman pizza they have. [ Maruki tickles at his ribs until the persistent worry scrawled across his young features finally melts into laughter too. ] Come on. We have a whole day to do whatever we want!
[ Which means Akechi does get ramen for breakfast. And for lunch. Not for dinner, though; Maruki sets him up on the counter, lets him eat little bits of mushroom as he makes one gigantic okonomiyaki for them to share. Halfway through dinner, Rumi calls from her hotel room as she gets ready to go out for drinks with her colleagues. They chatter with her on speakerphone the whole time, and Maruki keeps waiting for him to mention the dreams, but–
He doesn't. Thank god. Maybe he's forgotten.
Hopefully he's forgotten.
There are tears when Rumi has to go, of course, and reassurances that she'll be home in a couple days, that she'll talk to both of them in the morning. More tears, more reassurances after she's hung up to go about her night; they don't eat another bite after that, and Maruki winds up with a lapful of overemotional, overtired child, clinging and asking again and again if he'll have to go to another home if she doesn't come back.
They wind up in the hall, Akechi in Maruki's arms so he can be held up to the photo of his mother. Then on the floor beneath it, so they can talk quietly about home and family with her still nearby. Then the photo comes off the wall, frame and all, and joins them on the couch, so she can watch Featherman with them before bed. Maruki doesn't know how to say no. Doesn't know how to make it sink in that she never wanted to leave him, and they don't either.
Maybe it will never sink in. Maybe there will always be a piece of his son's heart mired in that pain, and there's nothing he can do about it but hope that he can still love wholly anyway.
A walk down to the conbini for ice cream, a while spent chatting with the neighbor across the hall and her dog on their way back. A bath, a long goodnight to the photo rehung on the wall, a longer one relayed via text message to Rumi. A token attempt at getting Akechi to sleep in his own room, and an easy relenting when he crawls into their bed twenty minutes later.
Maruki tells him stories about a brave prince who could conquer any challenge set before him until he falls asleep tucked under his arm, and when he finally drifts off to sleep himself a couple hours later–
He dreams not of a castle, but of a luxury condo, sleek and minimalist and paid for by a power much higher than either of the people inside.
Akechi kneels on a bathroom floor, forehead resting against forearm slung over the rim of a toilet. He's almost concerningly slight – when I'm older, I don't like to eat that much – and his back heaves as he pants, spluttering and choking on his own saliva as he tries not to retch again.
Maruki kneels right next to him. Dressed smartly – too smartly, nicer than he ever has in his life save for his wedding day, pressed trousers and a crisp white lab coat. Clean-shaven with neat, slicked back hair. He has Akechi's hair gathered gently at his nape, lank with sweat, his other hand wiping a wet cloth gingerly over his mouth and chin before he drops it to rest his palm between his shoulder blades. A quiet shushing, a soothing rub up and down – whatever words he's murmured can't be made out through the dreamtime haze.
A noise rips from Akechi's throat, so loud it only sounds as ringing in his ears. He's pushing away, pressing his back against the glass door of the shower, shaking his head. Maruki stays kneeling in front of him, listens patiently to whatever words tumble from his lips, and he must be at least ten years older than the child tucked safely beneath Maruki's arm, but he looks so young, so frightened in fits and flashes before he tries to school himself out of it.
All they do is talk. Maruki can't hear a word. There's an oppressive near-silence that thrums through the whole of the dream, like bird wings thumping against a cage.
All they do is talk, until a weak sunrise breaks through the window above the shower, and only then does he manage to help Akechi to his feet.
Maruki's eyes flutter open, sunbeams filtering in through an open window in
a farmhouse during a time of war
a fog-covered small town
a rural house blanketed in snow
a cafe in a Tokyo suburb
a nondescript room in a rehab facility
the cramped, happy home of the only family he's ever known, and Akechi stirs awake beneath his arm. ]