PoT: In the Name of the Son (FIC MEME)

Jan 29, 2007 23:26

for burnein: fic meme new father-to-be Atobe, with cigars.


In the Name of the Son
by omi

The birth of the Atobe heir was a momentous event, involving months of preparation, rehearsals and split-second coordination involving a small army of servants, nurses, a medical team of the top obstetricians, a newly refurbished surgical operating room in the south wing of the Atobe mansion as well as the Atobe family's personal physician on 24-hour standby.

Which was why when the first labour pangs hit the younger Mrs Atobe, her personal assistant -- a calm and eminently level-headed matron -- swung into immediate, well-rehearsed action. She and a maid helped Mrs Atobe into a wheelchair, and the butler and the midwife were simultaneously summoned. The butler made several discreet phonecalls, first to the attending obstetrician, then to the elder Mr and Mrs Atobe, to Young Master Keigo who was still at work in the office, and finally to the nanny who had undergone several rounds of rigorous selection before her final appointment; the midwife's sole responsibility was to ensure the continual wellbeing of Mrs Atobe and her unborn son.

Within ten minutes, the expectant mother was comfortably ensconced in the delivery bed, the midwife and obstetricians were in attendance and the strains of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor, Mrs Atobe's favourite piece of music, was playing in the background.

All that was left, was the actual birth itself.

Atobe Keigo was in his office when he received the call informing him of his son's incipient arrival into the world. He had none of the usual new father-to-be nerves, indeed, he exhibited no signs of excitement or interest whatsoever. After the phonecall, he completed his meeting with his client with his usual flair, and went on to approve or disapprove the various proposals on his desk, according to each's merits, before finally calling it a day.

By the time he reached home, his parents were already anxiously waiting in the living room suite off the delivery room.

"Father, mother," Atobe greeted his parents coolly with an slight incline of his head as he entered the room.

His father grunted in response, and continued to stare at the door of the delivery room. His mother looked at him reproachfully. "Keigo, you're late," she said with a hint of disapproval in her impeccably made-up face. "Michiko has already been in there for the past five hours."

"Aah," said Atobe noncommittally. He didn't hate his parents for foisting this unwanted marriage and child on him, not precisely, not when he knew they meant well. But he couldn't bring himself to forgive them either. Without a word, he seated himself on the sole chair, away from his parents, and waved off the offer of tea from the maid.

The butler came forward then, bowing, a bouquet of champagne roses and an elegant box of cuban cigars in hand, and left them on the table next to Atobe with a murmured, "Congratulations, Young Master."

Atobe nodded absently, and stared at the roses, strumming his fingers to a complex beat.

Two years. That was how long it took for him and his new stranger-wife to come to an agreement. From utter strangers, to a grudging acceptance, to a slow resignation that finally led to a mutual understanding and acceptance built on the simple fact that they might as well make the best of their situation.

Suzuki Michiko was the perfect wife, the perfect mate. She was beautiful; she was kind; she was understanding. She was trained from birth to grace the side of her husband, to manage his household and be the mother of his children.

But for all her beauty and virtues, she wasn't Tezuka Kunimitsu.

And that encapsulated the tragedy of their marriage.

The door of the delivery room opened, and the midwife bustled out, beaming. "Congratulations, congratulations! Mrs Atobe has given birth to a big healthy son, and both mother and child are doing very well."

Atobe's parents got up to their feet, laughing delightedly and started for the delivery room. "How wonderful--!" "Our first grandchild!" "Keigo, hurry up!" His mother beaming, beckoning him to join them.

Atobe got up to his feet, gathered the roses and cigars, and entered the delivery room. His parents had made a beeline for the baby, a tight little knot of nurses, and a tiny mewling bundle wrapped up in a soft blue blanket. Atobe made his rounds, accepting the congratulations from the doctors and staff with equanimity and dispensing cigars left, right and center as he went.

Finally, he shook off the wellwishers, and approached the bed. His wife was in it, pale, hair still damp with perspiration, dark circles under her eyes, and a tiredness about her face that was impossible to disguise.

He handed her the roses. "Thank you," he said. "It has been difficult for you."

She smiled faintly as she accepted the bouquet. "Have you seen our son?"

"No, not yet," he shook his head, and turned to look at his parents, still cooing over the small bundle. "Soon." He turned back to look at his wife. "You should rest now."

"Mmm..." Michiko nodded and obediently closed her eyes. Her head sank deeper in the pillow.

Atobe gently brushed a stray lock of hair off his wife's forehead and waited a little longer to be certain that she is resting, before making his way to his parents and son.

"Look, Keigo. He looks just like you!" His mother laughed.

Atobe took his child into his arms, just a little awkwardly, and carefully peeled back the blanket to get his first good look at his son's red tiny scrunched up face. "God, I hope not!" the words slipped out before he could help himself.

"Silly boy, all babies look like that when they are just minutes old. But see, see his eyes? and that nose! Aha! That is pure Atobe." His mother brushed a gentle, be-ringed finger across the baby's cheek and crooned softly to the baby.

Atobe shifted a little. The baby weighed practically nothing in his arms. Hard to believe that this is a totally new individual being. His old tennis bag weighed heavier than that -- not that he had much opportunity to carry his own bag, of course...

He extended a tentative finger towards his son, caught the tiny waving fists. The baby latched on to his finger and quieted. His heart stirred, inexplicably moved despite himself. This tiny life in his arms was the culmination of his blood and Michiko's. This was his future. His arm tightened slightly around the baby. This is his treasure. To protect. To teach. To love unconditionally. His son.

"Have you decided on his name?" his father asked.

Atobe looked at his son for a long moment. The tiny face, the shock of dark hair, the tiny perfect hand gripping his finger like there was nothing else in the world. His son!

Atobe took a deep breath. Thought of sharp brown eyes concealed by glasses and heartache. Thought of the pain of love that had no future. Thought, for the first time, of the little, little joys. Of normalcy, of steadfastness, of fierce loyalty, and a sweet nature.

"... Munehiro," he said, finally. "My son's name is Atobe Munehiro."

pot

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