Diary of a Young Prince_Part 1
Diary of a Young Prince
Chapter: 1/4 (oneshot in four parts)
Pairing: Tora x Saga x Oc (mainly, but there are others)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: POV, slice-of-life
Warnings: Polyamory, male x male, adult themes, foul language
Summary: The life of a young man and his highly unorthodox family.
Comments: This monstrous piece down here has been floating in my mind for quite a while but I was waiting for the motivation to put my thoughts in writing, and my oh my did that backfire. Look at the size of this thing…its goddamn huge! A lot bigger than intended (I had to chop it in three, bleh) but eh, thats just how my brain works.
This is the last piece of the series that I started with Uneasy Hearts Weigh the Most and On Fairytales, and I think its a fitting epilogue, all written in Isamu's point of view. I thought I was done when I wrote On Fairytales but I don't know, it felt unfinished, the characters wouldn't leave me alone, so I caved in…I hope you guys will like it, I debated with myself about about posting it for quite a while. This is unbetaed by the way, and from the sheer size of this monster I'm pretty sure there are mistakes in there, I apologize in advance. Enjoy this first part!
Read part 1 of Rock Royalty here: http://aleksiina-26.livejournal.com/10160.html#cutid1
And part 2 is right here: http://aleksiina-26.livejournal.com/11867.html
***
I have an odd family.
Odd is a mild word even. Not odd in the negative sense of the term, just outside of society's norms I suppose. I guess it all starts with my father.
My father, is a very peculiar character.
To me and my sister, he's just Dad. Has always been, will always be, even though I turn 18 today. He will always be my dad.
He's love to my mother, sometimes he's Shinji when he's done something especially bad, but she hardly ever calls him by his name.
To Saga, his boyfriend, he's babe, or sweetheart.
He's Tora to all his friends, to his fans. To my Alice Nine uncles, Shou, Hiroto and Nao, he's Tora-yan, Torashi.
He has many names, but he's definitely a unique man. He's one of those imposing, long-limbed guys that always stands out in a crowd, despite the fact that he's slender as a birch, delicate even, in a way. His hair is soft black, straight and smooth, falls in long strands across his eyes, just past his shoulders, artfully layered. Still no grey, despite the fact that he's almost half a century old, but there's a few lines at the corners of his eyes, laugh-lines my mom calls them, always with a kiss on his temple to shush his grumbling. Apart from that, its like time has no sway on him whatsoever. I look at pictures from his earlier band days, and often I'm baffled at how gracefully he aged.
At how beautifully all of them aged really.
He's soft-spoken, easy-going, but his laughter is loud and obnoxious, especially at the movies when no one else understands the joke like he does. His voice goes up two entire octaves when he's annoyed, and he makes faces, constantly. As much as he would like to be able to conceal his emotions, his face will always be an open book. To me at least, maybe because I'm his son, and apparently I take after him, but he can't hide anything from me. Except christmas presents maybe, he's always been damn good at that. He cries easily, and its endearing. It really is.
I have his light hazel eyes, mine more gold than green, and his nose, and those dimples underneath my cheekbones that Saga likes to playfully poke at, just as much on my father as he does on myself. I have that same goddamn pale skin that burns instantly in summer, the same lanky frame, but I'm a full inch taller than he is, and goddamn proud of it. We have the same voice too, a deep subterranean rumble, and the same laugh, much to my dismay.
I love my father.
Then there's my mother, Eimi. She and my father have been divorced for as long as I remember, yet they love each other tenderly. They divorced when they still loved each other, and just never stopped. The eternal lovers uncle Nao calls them. They never remarried. She playfully calls my dad her ex-husband-boyfriend when asked to define their relationship by baffled people. It makes him snort every time.
She's baby or Em to both my dad and Saga, mom to me.
I feel like I take after her the most, maybe not with my looks, since I'm a balanced mixture of both my parents, but I definitely take after her in attitude and mindset. Same light-brown, wavy hair, same even white teeth and smile, same kind of light-hearted, happy-go-lucky attitude. We're both artists, like rice over noodles, hate apples, love iced coffee.
She always understands what I have to say, even if my words don't always make sense. She always knew when to leave me alone when I was a moody teen, or when to come into my room with a gentle knock and a plate of cookies my dad baked when I felt down. She reads me like an open book, just as much as I read my dad. Maybe I do take after my dad after all, she knows him inside and out, maybe that's why she always knew how to deal with me. She taught me how to draw, how to enjoy books and museums, how to take photographs with an old camera from the 80's.
She's patient, and even tempered. She can get lost in thought for hours at a time, doodling on a piece of paper, before coming back to the real world with the strangest of reflections coming out of her mouth. She's very short, five feet four, and so, so slender, delicate. She has a heart shaped face and sharp cheekbones, a small nose, wide, midnight-black eyes with deep double eyelids. Long fluttery lashes. A full mouth. Perfect teeth from two years of braces.
I can fit both her hands in my palm. Her wedding band is too small to even fit my pinky finger.
Sometimes my father picks her up like a sack of potatoes, just because he can, randomly, and my mom is half annoyed while Saga and my father die of laughter. My dad tells her she's beautiful, all the time, especially when she complains about that crease in her forehead, and that strand of white at her left temple that seems to get wider and wider every year. And then Saga always counters by saying that his hair is much worse, and that she should be happy she still has a killer body, which I guess she does, but its my mother were talking about. My mother. I'll only ever say she's hot if she asks me to, and even then, she needs a damn good reason.
They look, are, very much alike, Saga and my mother. Its striking sometimes.
Saga is quite something. He's baby to my dad too, which sometimes leads to confusion because that's also how he calls my mother, and he always laughs when he calls "baby" and both turn around. My mom calls him honey, darling, and her voice is always soft and tender when she does. My sister calls him Sasa-chan, an echo of her toddler years that stuck around, and he's Saga to me.
He's been my father's partner for as long as I remember.
There's a picture of us in the second floor hallway in our house, amongst many, many others. A small black and white photo in a black frame. I'm probably less than two years old on it, we're at a park, probably the one next door, and I'm asleep in Saga's arms, my little head lolling on his shoulder. He's holding me with both arms, hitched on his left hip, looking down at me with his lashes fanning on his cheeks, and his smile is soft. Its one of my favourite pictures. There's tons more, albums full.
He's scattered, in all senses of the term. He's the best at making an utter mess of every flat surface in the house, losing his stuff, usually on said flat surfaces, spilling liquids on his favourite clothing. He's always late, hates getting up in the morning, can't stand being rushed. He can't cook to save his life, yet he always made sure mine and my sister's school lunches were nice and perfect, his sandwiches are always the best. He drinks everyone under the table, all the time, and then laughs at us the next day. He came with me when I got my first piercing, a lip ring like my dad, arguing in my favour when both my parents said no, convincing them with sound arguments. All my female friends, that don't crush on my dad first, immediately crush on him like mad, and I can't begrudge him because he's so cute and awkward about it, I almost feel bad for him when they all gang up on him and demand to hear tales of his youth as a fanservicing-heartbreaker-bassist in a rock band. I went to him for school woes, girl woes, teenage woes in general, my eternal, open-minded confident. All the qualities of a mother and a father without the title that made it awkward. I told Saga anything and everything, without fear of him judging me or going to my parents, and to his credit he never did. His remedy for angst always worked like a charm: "Fuck homework, lets go get a beer and talk about it."
He's a musical genius. He composes songs that can make you feel like you're on top of the world one second, and move you to tears the next. His voice is breathy and mellow like old whiskey, especially when he sang me lullabies when I couldn't sleep. His hair is almost completely grey, feathered and wavy, it frames his oddly ageless face perfectly. He refuses to dye it because it's unique, streaked with silver and white and some darker, soft charcoal strands around his face. Its so unique and beautiful it almost looks intentional. He wears stylish, rectangle framed glasses, a little low on his almost-too-long nose. Sweaters always hang off his frame in smooth drapes because he's so slender, always has been.
I adore him.
And then there's my sister, Suzume. Little sparrow is her nickname of choice, from pretty much everyone, except my dad. He calls her sweetie, it half-annoys her.
She's five years younger, and an exact replica of my father. Same silky black hair, same white, white skin, same pink mouth and pointy nose. Their eyes are strikingly alike, same shape and colour, but her lashes are longer. She's ridiculously tall and lanky. Taller than my mother, taller than Saga, give her another year maybe, and she'll be as tall as my father. She started modelling this year. It bothers my mom, a lot, but she won't discourage her. Its her baby girl growing up.
She even plays guitar, started at five, and it makes my father so goddamn proud that she'll be better than him one day. He playfully teases uncle Hiroto about it all the time, how his daughter is just like he was at the same age, just better, and cuter.
I wouldn't say that she's his favourite, because parents love all of their children equally albeit for different reasons, but they are so very close. They think alike, have the same sense of humour, make an awesome team at pretty much any video-game. She has an attitude right now, not downright rebellious, but there's this edginess to her mood that makes her anger easily, probably because she's a teenaged girl. And all teenaged girls go through this phase where they hate their bodies, get annoyed at everyone, and snap when you eat all of their ice cream. And she's smack in the middle of it. Its okay though, even if we bicker more often than not, there's tender sibling affection underneath. We will fight for hours over something dumb, and then cuddle on the couch sharing popcorn in front of a silly movie ten minutes later. Thats just how it is.
We have an unconventional family, with a complicated story. It started before I was born, when my parents were elementary school students in the same class. But for me, it starts with my very first memories.
***
Some of my earliest, somewhat clear memories are of concerts.
Sounds muffled by earplugs, bright lights, excited crowds writhing and jumping.
My father playing guitar, Saga by his side. Uncle Shou singing his heart off, uncle Hiroto with his flashy costumes and moves, and uncle Nao, always smiling behind his drums. Hazy images sometimes, but those little details always stand out in my mind.
I remember always squirming in my mom's arms between songs, because I just wanted to run to my dad, not really old enough to understand that it would probably cause problems.
I remember running around backstage, hiding behind clothing racks, getting cooed over by the makeup-hair staff, going up and down the hallway riding on Hiroto's shoulders. Good memories. There's a video of me, age three, sitting behind the drumset on Nao's lap. He hands me a stick while he holds onto the other one. He shows me how to hit, gently guiding my hand, and my face is utterly surprised at the sound my own little hand produced. And then I hit on my own, and burst into laughter. Hit, giggles, hit, giggles, and everyone is laughing.
Good memories.
***
Some of them are more vivid than others.
I remember playing hide and seek with Chikin, my father's cat, under the bed, in cupboards, wrecking havoc in the apartment. He'd always fall asleep curled up at the foot of my bed, and then playfully attack my toes through the comforter in the morning. He'd curl up with me at nap time, a purring ball of comforting fluff.
Playing with Saga in the park next door. We'd have ice cream from a street vendor, and he'd always push the swing as hard as I asked, and then would carry me home on his back when I was too tired to walk home.
Snuggling on the couch with my dad, lulled to sleep by his steady breathing, his murmured lullabies, the comforting scent of cologne, leather and tobacco that I couldn't identify as a child but immediately associated with my dad. Safety, warmth, and strong protective arms around me.
My mother's studio in her house, bathed in sunlight, mixing paint colours on a white plate while she worked in the background at her drawing table. The crinkling of tracing paper, the scent of markers. She still freelanced as an architect back then, before she picked up art.
Summertime, lying down in fresh grass while uncle Hiroto's dog, Mogu, is playfully licking at my face. Chasing each other for hours while uncle Hiroto takes pictures of the landscape.
Building a huge castle with lego blocks with uncle Nao.
At the arcade with uncle Shou, when he lifted me high enough to reach the console, cheering me on as I enthusiastically mashed the buttons.
I have a few less good memories too.
Falling down and scratching my knees, elbows, hands, everything. Breaking my favourite toys. Getting denied candy at the store.
Missing my dad and Saga because they're on tour.
But that's life when your dad is a rockstar.
***
A vivid one is of my parents and Saga talking in hushed voices around the kitchen table at my mother's house. Its summertime, moist and sticky air, and I can't sleep. I'm slowly dozing off in my mother's arms. The conversation is serious, and my mother's voice gets hesitant at some parts. Saga covers her hand with his own, not much bigger than hers, over the table, and their fingers entwine. His smile is soft, and my father looks hopeful when he looks at my mother. She agrees to something, and Saga's smile widens. I can hear her heart, beating faster when my father leans over with a smile and kisses her exposed shoulder, the side of her neck.
Saga smiles.
My dad buys the house next door. Its a really big house, two floors and a basement, a big backyard, tons of room to play. Painting walls is fun, I ask for a dark blue room, with stars on the ceiling, and my parents agree with wide smiles on their faces. Its a strange new dynamic. I see both my parents, and Saga, everyday now, except when dad is on tour, but its not hard to get used to.
They still live in separate houses, but they are ten steps apart, literally, and mom spends a lot of time with my dad. A lot more than they used to. Their dynamic has changed too. I didn't really realize how, because my child's mind wasn't quite at a stage to understand such things, but I could tell that things had changed. Now, with years on my side, I realize that it was the beginnings of them two rebuilding their relationship, one day at a time. Rebuilding trust, and love between them, on steady foundations this time, with Saga helping them work out their issues, steady and grounded.
They have another long talk one night, on the new couch. Saga is cuddled against my father's side, eyes tired and happy. He's holding on to my father's hand, traces his knuckles with his fingertips. He's doing most of the talking, and my dad listens intently. My mother is quiet too, sitting down on the thick rug at their feet, gently rocking me to sleep in her arms. My father's free hand is twirling a strand of her long hair. Its the end of winter and her sweater is soft. My father asks her something, hesitant, and she pauses in her movement. Saga's eyes are full of pleading hope.
She looks down at my half asleep face. Her eyes are dark and velvety, and her mouth quirks at the corners as she moves a strand of hair out of my eyes. Her lips are warm when she kisses my forehead.
"Okay." She agrees, simply. "Lets give it a try."
***
Another memory.
I just turned four, and I'm half asleep on the couch in my father's house, full of chocolate cake and soda, my head in Saga's lap. My friends have gone back home, but my uncles are still around, having coffee and chatting in the living room. There's confetti and wrapping paper everywhere, Mogu is having a blast rolling around in it, and Saga's hands in my hair are soft and soothing. I can see my mom and dad in the dining room, piling up plates and glasses. And then my dad is dipping his finger in leftover icing and sneakily bops my mother's nose with it, laughing at her quirked eyebrow of annoyance. She goes to wipe it off with her hand, but he stops her, gently grabbing her wrist as he leans down to lick it off the tip of her nose. She giggles, wrapping her arms around my father's neck. They look at each other, soft smiles, my fathers hands sliding down my mother's back. Their mouths meet, slow and soft, and I can hear Saga chuckling low in his throat. Its a happy, pleased, satisfied chuckle, and even in my child's mind I realize that it sounds like its been a long time coming, and he's happy to see it at last.
I learn later that they had started being intimate again for a little while before that, but that its the first time that they let go of all their reservations in public and just let their feelings guide their actions, for once.
My eyes half-close on the image of them still kissing, and then I hear my father's voice, low and husky, and its the first time I hear it sound like this. Like there's something stuck in his throat.
"I've missed this…" the rustle of clothing, of my father's hands sliding up my mother's back, underneath her tee this time.
"Gods I've missed you…I love you…"
Saga's hands in my hair are soft and soothing, and I fall asleep.
***
Then comes the famous talk. Another memory that shaped my childhood, made me realize that my family was unique.
How are babies made?
It had been one of those questions that had weighed on my little heart for a good week, when a friend at school had brought up the subject while we played in the sandbox outside. So at bedtime, I ask my father as he was tucking me in. He smiles, a little awkwardly, lays down on the small bed with me and I curl up against his chest like a shrimp, and then explains the best he can, in words that a four year old boy would understand.
When two people love each other, like your mom and I, sometimes, they want to get close. Really close, until their bodies are one, and when that happens, well, sometimes, a baby is made. And when that happens, its a bit like the father planting a tiny little seed in the mother's belly, and that tiny seed grows, and grows and slowly it becomes a baby. It takes nine months for the baby to grow.
I ask if that's what happened with me, and my father nods.
"I planted that little seed in mommy's belly, and that tiny seed became you. Isn't that amazing?"
I ask him, innocently, if it hurt mommy when they made me, and my father blushes, ten shades of crimson, and chuckles.
"No, no it felt really really good, for mommy and me. It feels really good to be one with someone you love."
That was enough to satisfy my child's mind, not that my father would explain in detail to a four year old. I ask my father if boys can have babies, and he nods negatively.
"No, only girls have that space inside for babies to grow."
I think for a few seconds, puzzled.
"But daddy, you really love Saga too, no? And Saga is a boy, does that mean you'll never be able to make a baby with him?"
My father's lips tighten, and his eyes get moist and glittery but he smiles nonetheless, caressing my hair.
"No, but there are ways. Not like the one I explained, but there are ways for people like me and Saga to have kids of their own. But its a little complicated, I'll explain when you're a little older. But you know, you're our baby already, even if Saga didn't make you. Saga has been there, with you, ever since you were born. He learned that you were arriving at the same time I did, and he took care of you just as much. And he loves you, just like I love you, like your mom loves you."
I tangle my fingers in the loose string of his black hoodie.
"That means I'm really lucky no?"
"How so?" my father asks.
"Because I have you, and mommy, and Saga. Two daddies and a mommy, aren't I lucky? My friends don't have a Saga like I do."
I can feel my father's lips, hot and moist on my forehead, and his voice is strained.
"No, we're the lucky ones. We're the lucky ones to have such a smart, beautiful son like you."
***
And here is the end of part 1! Head on over to part 2... http://aleksiina-26.livejournal.com/15454.html