Fic: Perfection (1)
So...I won! Like, forever ago, I wrote this fiction for the 'better' prompt on ouran_contest and I actually won, which made me feel lovey-dover inside (because, yes, I am that competative)! I was also pleased to have this be the first real Fuyumi-centric fanfiction that (at least I could ever see/find) on FF.net! So, without further ado, lookie what I won~ (and enjoy the fiction)
Title: Perfection
Rating: PG-13
Genre: General, tad bit ofRomance, Angst, Drama
Pairings or Characters: Fuyumi-centric, but if you squint, there's Ootori-cest, I suppose.
Warnings: Well, les' just say not everyone's nice to their children.
Summary: She had to be perfect--that was the Ootori way. She had to be, especially when making up for the inperfections of her mother. She just had to be. Twenty-six short sections, covering from birth through life, of Fuyumi Ootori
Author's Notes: Enjoy.
Perfection
Newborn Fuyumi Ootori hiccups after a thorough feeding of bottled formula and spits up all over the violet uniform that adorns her personal nanny. The woman scowls in distaste and Fuyumi howls in a screeching wail that is most unbefitting of a lady.
-
On year old, bouncing, bright and brunette-cherub sits in frilly pink dress laced with white and a matching set of booties and a bonnet. Her smile is one of delight at the completely ridiculous puppet that the camera man holds in his free hand, and she laughs in unhampered joy. Yoshio Ootori stands off to the left, his cell phone glued to his ear and eyes permanently attached to the piece of paper he’s reading statistics off of. Hitori Ootori squats closer to Fuyumi’s eye level, cooing to her darling daughter with an adoring smile.
“Sweet, sweet Fuyumi-chan,” she calls to her daughter, who continues to smile and alternates looks between her photographer and mother. “Darling, smile!”
The girl starts to babble and rock on the tiny chair that is her perch before reaching down to the ground between her legs and pushing her small, rounded body upwards until she’s standing in a wobbly, upright position. She’s flat on her white-covered feet, precariously balanced on two chubby legs and giggling like a maniac. Her mother makes an ‘ooooh’ face and flutters her hands almost violently, pointing to her youngest in surprised pride.
“Yoshio, look!” Hitori exclaims as Fuyumi places one wobbly foot in front of the other. “She’s walking!” And camera like flashes brightly and the Ootori patriarch looks over at the scene, still distracted from his heated financial discussion, in time to see his youngest child throw caution to the winds and launch herself forward, landing flat on her face.
His expression sours as Hitori rushes forward to coddle the child before she cries. “She’s not walking. She’s falling.”
-
Two years old, the youngest Ootori-and the only girl of three children-jumps excitedly on the grassy knoll, the front of her dress completely covered in dark, rich and crumbling earth. She’s smiling like she hasn’t got a care in the world and after she’s done dancing around on her feet, Fuyumi makes to run across the back lawn of the Ootori estate, directly to her oldest brother who sits alone on the back terrace, and old copy of Japanese literature open on his lap and eyes transfixed on the page.
She screeches, “Rei-san! Rei-san!” in a high pitched tone and trumps up the stairs to the porch, dislodging more dirt with each step. “Rei-san!”
The oldest Ootori son looks his little sister up and down with no trace of a fond or even remotely eight-year old smile playing around his mouth. “What have you been doing?”
Fuyumi doesn’t listen. She runs at Rei, opening her arms in an attempt to hug her older brother, only to be held at bay by two hands on her small shoulders and a subtlety obvious expression of disgust for her sullying her new cloths around the oldest Ootori child’s mouth. Still, she talks. “Rei-san, what’s this?” Fuyumi asks, holding up her clenched palm to reveal the twitching ends of an earth worm protruding from past the fingers.
The boy gives her a look. “Earthworms are also called megadriles (or big worms), as opposed to the microdriles (or small worms) in the families Tubificidae, Lumbriculidae, and Enchytraeidae, among others. The megadriles are characterized by having a multilayered clitellum (which is much more obvious than the single-layered one of the microdriles), a vascular system with true capillaries, and male pores behind the female pores. It’s been found the most humane way of drawing them up to the surface is to sprinkle saltwater on the ground, causing their menbranes to itch with discomfort. Why all the questions, Fuyumi-chan?”
She shrugs and giggles. “I don’t know!” The brunette girl exclaims proudly, stepping back from her brother and staring at the small version of the Tubifividae-whatever in her hand. “Rei-san, why do they taste like the chicken in nabe?”
-
Fuyumi Ootori is three years old when her mother has the first epilepsy attack she could remember. It is something she can’t forget, really, more of just remember-walking into the kitchen to see the maid holding her mother’s head in a vice-like grip and the butler forcing a wooden spoon into her mouth so that she wouldn’t bite her own tongue. The girl stops in her tracks, dropping the plate that had held the snack of strawberry pocky so that the china shatters upon contact with the floor. It’s almost as if the sound goes unnoticed, and the sick, gurgling moans and gasps that Hitori makes as she writhes under the weight of two bodies forces Fuyumi to run from the room with her hands tightly clasped over both ears. She’s crying by the time she reaches her father’s study, hot and wet tears flowing freely down her cheeks and causing tiny wisps of hair to cling to her face. Her own voice is choked as she pushes inside the door, letting out a howl that reeks of distress and horror and pain.
“She’s dying!! Mother’s dying!!” She shrieks, stopping in the middle of the floor to let out the anguished cry. “She’s-she’s-HELP HER!!”
Yoshio spares her a glance before dialing on his desk phone and demanding a doctor. He hangs up and tells his daughter simply, “Your mother will be fine,” before pushing his glasses up his nose and extracting a file from a stack of manila envelopes.
Fuyumi isn’t quite certain what she should do now, nor is she believes her father when he says this, but also figures she has no choice and sniffles, trying to stem the tears before exiting the office to go find her mother, hold her hand and make sure everything was fine. She turns to go, small shoes playing ‘tap-tap’ on the hard wood before she swears she hears words that she doesn’t understand, “Thank god none of them were genetically predisposed.”
-
The Ootori girl is four the first time she is caught doing anything bad and even then it’s a minor thing. A fresh batch of cookies sits upon a cooling rack in the extensive kitchen of the estate, and they await the moment when they are to be served to the Ootori children after dinner. However, one of the three is unwilling to wait and somehow manages to sneak past her parents, tutors and house staff, into the kitchen and to the cookies.
Fuyumi takes two, the insides still warm and full of gooey chocoate-ness, and she sits with her back against the cabinet door, tiny legs crossed in front of her as one of the treats is slowly eaten without mishap; no one notices that she’s there and no one comes looking for her after noticing she’s not somewhere she should be. Rei and Akito have obviously not told. However, as the heiress starts in on the second chocolate chip cookie, the family cook-Kyon Tendo-rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks, staring at the child who’s been caught-red/chocolate handed-and who stares back at him with a minor air of superiority.
“I thought I told all three of you that you weren’t allowed cookies before dinner,” he accuses sharply but quietly, unwilling to draw attention to himself while chewing out one of his employer’s children. “Well? What have you to say for yourself, Ootori-san?”
She stands, still holding the cookie, and poises akimbo, with both wrists pressed to her hips, arms bowed outward, and imitating the stand-offish and snobby manner she’s seen other girls adopt. “My father said I could,” is Fuyumi’s response, stressing the emphasis on the ‘father’ and resisting the urge to stick out her tongue. “When you said I couldn’t, I asked him and he said I could. So there.”
Admittedly, the brunette did know how to speak. She did not stutter or restart or slur her sentences like other children, but this lack of flaws also made her sound spoiled, a brat. Kyon stared down his long nose at her, scowling. “You father left for Egypt two days a go,” he tells her. Fuyumi looks indifferent, so the cook continues. "He couldn’t have given you permission unless you phoned him, and I highly doubt that, Ootori-san. You lied to me, Ootori-san. Do you know what that means?”
Fuyumi is shaking her head, and ignores the question as if it didn’t matter in the slightest. “I didn’t lie,” she tells the man, taking a bite of the cookie triumphantly and speaking with her mouth full-who’s this man to care about manners at the moment, anyway?-“I was being ma-nipple-u-tive.” She sounds out the word.
Kyon raises an eyebrow. “What’s that difference mean to you, Ootori-can?”
And at this, Fuyumi beams. “Father’s ma-nipple-u-tive, and it’s what makes him successful. People say so.” And she skips past the man to lick the chocolate off her fingers and destroy all the evidence of her crime.
-
Fuyumi’s five the first time someone gives her a life lesson. It’s one from her mother, who lies in her overly large bed, recovering from another spell and looking sickly. Her eyes are closed and Fuyumi thinks she is sleeping, at least until Hitori shifts and beckons her daughter to her side, giving a weak smile that, for once, doesn’t illuminate her features. No, if anything, the expression makes her whole face sink and look gaunt and foreboding.
The brunette child takes her mother’s cold hand gingerly and holds it to her warm face, pressing it there in a semi-comforting manner. “Mother, what’s wrong?”
Hitori sighs, and smiles sadly at her youngest. “Oh, Fuyumi-chan...I was just thinking. You know how you can get when you’re thinking-everything else just fades into the background. People, furniture...problems.” She threads her fingers through the perfectly parted hair her youngest has.
“Mother, why doesn’t Father, Rei-san or Akita-san ever come to visit you when you’re thinking in here? You look lonely.” She sniffled for minor emphasis to this face, pouting.
Hitori hand stays itself and she rolls onto her back, moving so as to make room for Fuyumi on the mattress. The five-year-old, ever eager to spend extra time with her mother, clambers up and wraps both arms around one of Hitori’s, burying her face in her mother’s chest like a missile seeking warmth and comfort. The reasonably cold skin under cloth vibrated with a low hum as the Ootori matriarch continued to talk. “Fuyumi-chan, Ootori men seek perfection. Your Father is no different, and your brothers are learning very quickly from him. They will not look upon anything that does not suit their preferences, their ideals of perfection. I call this an affliction of the mind, perfectionists at work...” She pauses, breathing deeply and trying to school her voice to portray no emotion-especially the tears behind her eyes. “I am not perfect, Fuyumi...Far from it.”
“Mother-“ she makes to get up, but Hitori’s free hand tightens on her shoulders.
‘Stay, Fuyumi. I have to tell you this. Always remember-men seek perfection where there is none. Stupid, heartless men will try to make you perfect, but they don’t realize that no one’s perfect! No one...So, a classy, socially acceptable woman must appear perfect, even if it’s faked. Do you understand, Fuyumi?”
The child squirms. She doesn’t, but answers as expected, “Yes, Mother.”
-
Fuyumi is six when her father insists she learn to play the piano. The finest-latest, most expensive-model is flown in from Germany and the (family-less) family room is reorganized to accompany the musical instrument.
She’s excited for a while, at least until she gets upon the bench and attempts to sound out simple pieces. She can’t and the only sounds are off key notes. But the girl does not give up-perfection must be achieved-and she tries for a little over two hours, by which time Akita enters the room, rugs on one of her braids and tells he to be quite.
“You’re horrible!!” he scolds, pulling so hard that Fuyumi’s head is pulled backwards, followed by the rest of her body, and the plodding sounds stop as her hands cannot reach the keys anymore. “Stop trying.”
Akito leaves and, the next day Fuyumi asks her father (via phone from his New York office) to hire her a teacher for the piano, and after a week of practice, she calls in her big brother and plays him a rendition of a simple Minuete.
-
At age seven, the female Ootori receives wonderful and crushing news within the same month. Her heart skips around happily when she learns she’s to be a big sister (something she’s always wanted to be, and with two older brother’s it’s understandable.) She sits with her mother for hours, days in succession, helping her mother pick out baby cloths, thinking of names (however weird: “Arthur!” or “Juju!”) or else rubbing the still smooth midsection and placing light kisses along the skin. She’s already decided that she’ll share all her old toys with this baby, play the piano for it and teach it to talk, all-over being the best big sister she could be.
The blow comes in late October, and the cloud that rises from the explosion is one of doctors in white coats and a visit to the hospital, where she must sit in the smelly waiting room, alone, for the better part of the night before she’s allowed in to see her mother. Hitori is shadowed, hollow, and curled into a ball the approximate size of two pillows. Her dark hair is matted with sweat, and her cheeks are still wet with tears. Still unshed droplets water behind her dulled eyes, and at first she doesn’t even notice her daughter’s presence; Fuyumi must clear her throat and shuffle slowly towards the bed before the Ootori matriarch looks at her. Even then, she almost starts bawling anew.
“Mother?” the girl asks, coming up short of the bed and resting her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mother, Rei-san and Akito-san send their condolences. They’re busy...mother, don’t cry.”
But all Hitori can do if sob quietly, eyes practically closed as more and more tears escape from under her lashes. Her head shakes side to side, mussing up her hair even more than it was before. Breaths are hitched, bard to take in and even harder to let go, and the result is harsh gasps and a violently rising chest under the pale hospital gown. And, through out this terrifying display of weakness, she wails quietly, “I’m not perfect. I’m not perfect. Fuyumi, I’m not perfect!”
Moisture stings Fuyumi’s cheeks before she realizes she’s crying and her hand tightens irrefutably around her mother’s in a comforting gesture. “Mother, it’s alright! You don’t have to be perfect! You’re perfect to me! Please don’t cry-you are perfect!”
But it does no good, and Hitori continues to sob blindly, wetting the hand of Fuyumi’s that is held to her flushed face; and there’s nothing the child can do but wait and watch.
-
The girl is eight the first time she is kissed. Adorned in a fancy green dress, with hair in perfect, black ringlets, she’s the picture of childhood innocence and a beauty without makeup. Fuyumi’s been quieter since the miscarriage of last year-it’s an event that’s affected them all differently, and all on different levels (Rei is more reclusive, locked in his room or else their father’s study. Akito’s meaner, making up for the chaos of a new baby with his impulsive and usually destructive means. Hitori’s sunk into a deep, dark depression-one that can only be combated by the latest and highest in medication, a dose that plays terrors on her seizures. Yoshio...he hasn’t changed that much in disposition, but he’s older visually and it sometimes makes all three children wonder just how old their father truly is.) She’s more likely to sit quietly, waiting for her presence to be called upon and even then, she will attempt to be the perfect girl that her mother is not.
It’s a social function, a dinner for high class families wishing to show off their fortunes. Her father wishes to show off all three of his children, and it seems a competition had begun, as other family officials had only brought children of the corresponding ages-eight, ten and fourteen-to mingle with adults. It’s boring. All these children seem akin to puppets-acting exactly how their parents wish them to-easily, manipulatable. She can’t help but criticize their outfits, posture, not-so-subtle conversation skills, and dinning etiquette, even if the commentary is only in her head. Fuyumi is indeed so distracted by her own silent musings; she almost doesn’t realize when Shinichi Watanuki starts tapping on her shoulder.
“Ootori-kun,” he addresses her a little too informally for a greeting between the heiress of a major doctorin and the son of an officer supply store owner. She starts, looking over at him almost curiously, and very guardedly. Watanuki just smiles. “Ootori-kun, you look bored.”
“I am bored,” she tells him. “It’s a very grown up party-no games, only silly talk-and I am...very, very bored.”
The way the boy smiles makes his eyes close and the skin around his mouth wrinkle into tiny dimples. It’s irksome. It’s cute. “Well, Ootori-kun, would you like to play?”
Fuyumi bites her tongue, blushing a little bi and looking away from Watanuki self consciously; too shy to tell him that she doesn’t really know how to play-she’s never done so. Instead, she tells him knowingly, “This is a grown up party. We have to act grown up.”
Watanuki pulls a face for a second before smiling again. “Even if it’s boring, Ootori-kun?”
“Yes.”
“You’re cute, Ootori-kun,” Watanuki tells her and Fuyumi’s wandering gaze snaps back to the boy who just complimented (?) her, her cheeks a brighter pink than before and her small mouth open in disbelief. The boy smiles and leans forward, effectively meshing their noses together in the middle of their faces and mouths. It’s a really quick kiss, and the only thing that assures Fuyumi that is was a kiss is the loud snapping sound that his mouth makes against hers. Watanuki is smiling again, and she almost wants to hit him. “You’re really cute, Ootori-kun, even if you’re a lot like a grown up.”
She flushes more.
-
Amazingly, Fuyumi is nine before she ever spends a full day with her father. He’s a busy man, she knows, one that can’t be bothered with such trivial things as spending time with his children or taking a day off. The last time she spent even close to this much time with the other half of her genetic material was two years ago in that hospital, and there it had been a sorry affair.
This time also takes place in a hospital, a grand tour and a sort of singular ‘bring your daughter to work’ day. Yoshio strides down the hallway, and the girl follows him quietly, running a bit to keep up with his pace and watching everything with wide, observant eyes, Coughing old men dressed in rich suits, crying women with newborn children, tiny bumps and scratches on children’s knees being tended to as if they were the most deadly affliction in the world. Everything seems big, everything imposing, but Fuyumi isn’t scared-not frightened.
The do stops at a room with large bay windows and an actual bed the size of a four-poster, surrounded by flowers, balloons, cards and gifts in general. The room appears to be able to fit in at least seven of the smaller hospital beds, but there is only one tenant-an elderly woman who is conversing on her cell phone to what seems to be her idiot daughter. However, as soon as she notices the hospital administrator in her room, the call is ended and an overly bright smile is flashed toward the doorway. “Ootori-san,” a brief pause for hacking coughs and then a polite, “Nice to see you. You look younger every time I see you.”
Fuyumi guesses the two are old friends, or else business acquaintances.
“Ah, Watanuki-san. You look well,” her father responds brightly, crossing the room to clasp her old and withered hands between his larger, warmer ones. “Everything well, I assume?”
She coughed again, but continued to smile. “As well as can be expected. I’m not in any pain.”
“Wonderful,” Yoshio removes a hand from hers and extends it toward his child, beckoning Fuyumi to the bedside. “Watanuki-san, allow me to introduce my youngest, Fuyumi. I believe she’s the girl your grandson was referring to when he told you about the dinner party last year.”
Watanuki-the name suddenly sounds all the more familiar.
The old woman peers at the brunette girl, who blushes at the securitization and averts her eyes in a disjointed gesture of respect for her elder. The hand that was previously clutching the Ootori patriarch’s reaches up to cup Fuyumi’s face, and she turns to stare blankly into old, crinkled eyes. A smile is tugging at the old Watanuki lady’s face, and when her fingers release the child’s cheeks she lets out a small chuckle. “Ah, yes, it must be. Well, that is, assuming there aren’t any other beautiful daughters of the Ootori line.” She hacks out a frame-wracking coughing fit that causes Fuyumi to tense as seemingly old spit flies everywhere, flecking her face. “You know-“ coughcough “-his father is dabbling in merchandising-office supply stores nowadays. I think he’d biding his time until I die and he can muscle his sisters out of the heir spotlight. Hehe, he’s pretty successful. I think he’ll do well as my successor.”
Yoshio raises a brow and Fuyumi loses all interest in the conversation, but still feigns as if she’s listening. “Does this mean you will be naming your son heir in your will?”
Watanuki shrugs. “Might as well. Youngest or not, he’s the only one who’s ever run a business or married a spouse I choose-and he’s happy with the American girl. He’s also the only one with a son and the brightest future.” Another spasm of coughs. “Oh, Ootori-san, you have no idea how lucky you are to have had sons first and then a girl.”
There’s a firm hand on her shoulder, and Fuyumi can practically feel the booming reverberations of her father’s voice as he agrees, “Yes, I know.”
And thus the day continues.
Later, in the car ride back to the Ootori estate, the back seat of the limo is silent except for the chink of ice clanking against the side of a glass of tonic water and breathing. Fuyumi stares out of the window at the hustle and bustle of the city hurrying past her, bright and lively colors made dull and bleak and gray from behind the tinted glass of the windows. her mind trails over the new people she met, all the new names and faces, and eventually comes back to the old Watanuki woman who seemed to be dying, and could talk of nothing more than her children and the grandson that the girl clearly remembered from the dinner party.
She’s almost completely in a memorotical daze when Yoshio clears his throat, and Fuyumi redirects her wide eyes to her father. He’s staring at her from behind the glass film of his spectacles and the brunette cannot help but feel that she’s under observation. “What do you remember of Watanuki-san’s grandson?” he asks her.
Fuyumi shrugs, trying to remember and forget at the same time. Shinichi Watanuki... “He’s...nice,” she skirts, and Yoshio seems to take this as an answer, directing his own gaze back to his glass. Before the girl can silence herself, words bubble up and spills over her lips in a tumultuous waterfall, “Father,amIperfect?”
Grey eyes flash back to Fuyumi’s face and a slender eyebrow raises. “What, Fuyumi-chan?”
“Am...Am I perfect, Father?” she asks again, carefully spacing the words and emphasizing each syllable.
Another eyebrow joins the first. “Perfect?” he gives her an appraising look, evaluating her from head to toe in a way that makes Fuyumi squirms. She’s almost regretting saying anything when his lips part and Yoshio replies guardedly, “You...appear to be. More so than others-“ and she flinches, knowing exactly who those ‘others’ are “-but it remains to be seen that you stay as such...Now, what do you think of marrying Shinichi Watanuki?”
-
Something marvelous happens on Fuyumi’s tenth year. A new addition to the family arrives via caesarian-section, his eyes sharply shut and mouth tiny, lipless and gaping. Her baby brother is pink, wrinkled and quite, perfectly content to be swaddled and dressed in warm cloths, and only fussing if he’s left unattended while hungry or wet. He eats at regular intervals, and sleeps most of the night, something Hitori aptly claims none of her other children did. All in all, Kyouya is the perfect child, and Fuyumi hates him for it.
Neither she, Akito or Rei are allowed inside the nursery that first month that their new brother is home-he’s too small, they’re told, too likely to get sick-but the large curiosity that gripped the children upon first arrival gradually dissipates, leaving sixteen-year-old Rei indifferent to the baby brother he felt more of an uncle to, twelve-year-old Akito competitive for the attention the new child’s receiving, and the ten-year-old daughter wallowing in deep hatred and brooding, remembering the way Yoshio had praised “he’s perfect” after the birth and longing to prove that he wasn’t and she was.
“Fuyumi-chan, are you excited to be a new big sister?” her mother asks one day as she spots her daughter hovering at the door to Hitori’s room. Two-and-a-half-week-old Kyouya is hugged to her breast, being slowly rocked to sleep while a nanny hovers near-by. The Ootori matriarch beckons her third child closer. “Come see the new baby.”
Unbiddingly, curiosity tugs at her heartstrings, inviting ‘go-go’ and pulling her toward the bundle that is so tiny in her mother’s arms that, for a second, she can’t even see it. Resolve quivers and she’s actually considering running to them, clambering on the bed and kissing Kyouya’s wrinkled forehead. But she doesn’t. “I don’t like babies,” Fuyumi’s face pulls upward in grim disgust. “They small funny and look like raisins.” and with that, she turns on her heel and marches out of the room, leaving a stunned Hitori and a sniffling baby behind her.
However, thoughts of babies-their not so horrid smell, the many cloths and diapers they need, the quiet cries that Fuyumi is sure are unique to her brother-and, by the time the sun sets and sleep is near, her own baby pictures, Rei’s and Akito’s drift in an out of her barely conscious mind’s eye. She can’t sleep in the end and sits up from plushy covers, rubbing tired eyes as a new resolve emerges from within every fiber of her being. Fuyumi slips on house slippers and her bathrobe before skillfully sneaking out of her room and down the many twisting, dark hallways that she knows leads to the new baby’s room.
The nursery is...painfully plain and gender oriented. Blue wall paper and drapes, with shadows over them give off an expansive look at the over-large toys in every corner of the room seem to be the contents of a nightmare. Fuyumi pauses three steps in on the white rug and exhales, wondering if she should just return to her bedroom before she’s discovered, leaving this impromptu visitation as is...But...There’s a shuffling from the crib and a low, mournful cry-one that she hasn’t heard before and one that strikes fear in her heart.
Quickly, her feet make no noise on the carpeted floor and she’s standing on her tiptoes to see over the edge of the crib at baby Kyouya.
He’s barely asleep, somehow rolled on his stomach and moving his unsquished nose into the sheets in a way that can’t be comfortable. His mouth is open and every so often it will either let out a wail or else a creepily high squeak of displeasure. Remembering something about babies never being put to sleep on their stomachs, Fuyumi tentatively squeezes her hand through the bars of the crib and pokes and prods Kyouya until his limp body turns over with a flop that jerks a very loud, very distressed cry from him.
Fuyumi tenses, figuring it was her fault and unwilling to be caught in a room she isn’t supposed to be in, in the first place making the baby cry. Inside the crib, a pacifier rolls around in an upper corner of the, and she snatches it, rolling the tip of the thing lighting over Kyouya’s screaming mouthing until he finds it blindly and suckles on the plastic nipple contentedly. She exhales, sighing, and can’t help but feel somewhat proud of herself for putting him so easily back to sleep, and once Kyouya’s quite again, she takes a good, long look at him.
He’s red, wrinkled and a little bit ugly. There’s a sprinkling of wispy black hair adorning his head, except where it’s been rubbed off by cradle cap. His head is a different shape than her own or older brother’s had been, rounder and unshaped by the trials and tribulations of labor and birthing. A tender spot between the two plates of his scalp pulses with his heartbeat, moving up and down at a faster tempo than his small chest. Tiny hands with even tinier fingernails clench and unclench intermittedly, and the few eyelashes he has move as his eyeballs under the lid twitch in deep sleep.
A soft smile curves Fuyumi’s mouth as she watches, thinking to herself that-despite the minor differences-he looks a lot like her as a child.
Fuyumi sleeps within the hug of a giant teddy bear that is twice her size, and jerks awake every time Kyouya sniffles or begins to cry. He’s perfect, she agrees, and although she won’t admit it as such yet, she loves the baby.
-
Click Here To Read Part Two