Yes, this is (formerly) Lilac24, not a story thief, I promise. Yes, this is the edited version of One Child. Heavily edited. Heavily heavily edited. For a more thorough explanation of the editing, please see my profile. If you don't mind the editing one bit, proceed with abandon. As you like.
Disclaimer: Even after all these years, I have failed to purchase the rights to Ouran High School Host Club.
In the middle of mother's desk rest two cherished pictures, each one of them preciously framed. One is of himself on the day of his birth, a small, pink, peach-looking thing swaddled in yellows and pastel blues, sleeping oblivious in his too-young mother's arms; (like an Easter egg, he thinks as he swings his legs, studying the world's first ever documentation of his existence).
The second picture is as familiar to him as the first, perhaps even more so. He knows it is cherished because mother speaks of it often. It was taken on the day she graduated.
Graduate: to successfully complete a course of study.
He mouths the word to himself and ponders its application to the scene before him, frozen forever behind the little square pane of glass. There are seven people squashed together between the four borders of the frame; in the absolute center, and most obvious to him, stands mother, looking positively annoyed—by what, he wonders? By the twins beside her, each with an arm draped over her shoulders as they (as mother says each time) "grin like fools"? He doesn't think so, since she only ever speaks of them fondly. Nor does he think it the fault of the tall one behind her, the one called Mori, nor of Hani smiling on his shoulders. It could not possibly be because of black-haired Kyouya, who stands off to the left like a shadow, arms folded tightly across his chest, as distant from the others in his eyes as he is in his body. That leaves only the one called Tamaki, a golden-haired and bright-eyed man standing off to the right who seems almost to glow as he winks and proffers a rose (of all things, a rose!) to the camera; the little boy does not think it is that man's fault, either.
The source of mother's apparent irritation, he muses, must be that, very much like himself, she does not appreciate having to stand for photographs. It's creepy, he thinks, staring into a cold glass eye that can imitate a person's likeness in one blink. He supposes that mother must think the same. Why else would she look so irate whilst surrounded by people she loves?
Satisfied that he has discerned the answer, he swings himself around in the swivel chair and hops the short distance to the floor. There is another part to the story, he knows, fragments picked up from mother's skimming. Something about a party that was supposed to happen, but never did. Something about mum waiting for a phone call that never came. It's a shame, he thinks, the fact that she never saw any of those people again. It's been six years—about as long as he's been alive.
He is pondering this point when, at 6:30PM exactly, mother walks through the office door. Right on cue, as she always is.
Her boss, Mrs. Izuno, enters behind her. They approach mother's cubicle together. This is unexpected.
As if in response to his frown, both mother and Mrs. Izuno laugh.
"Nothing to worry about, Haruo," Mrs. Izuno assures. Scoops him up, kisses the top of his head. "I just have a few more things to go over with your mum, and then you're both off home, alright?"
He likes Mrs. Izuno, even if she smells too sharply of vanilla. She is kind, with hair like an un-sheared sheep, and ever since he began coming to the law-firm after school she has been lending him 3D puzzles to play with while he waits for mother to be done with work. There is a half-constructed model of the Great Pyramids askew on the floor even now. It is half-finished on purpose, and Haruo is quite proud of it. The way it is now, the puzzle-model resembles miniature ruins.
Mrs. Izuno leans in close, her voice low but still loud enough for mother to hear, "Do you know what, Haruo? For being so very patient, I'll convince mom here to stop for ice cream on your way back. Sound fair?"
Conspiratorial: a combination of persons for a secret, unlawful, or evil purpose.
Mother had gotten him, among other things, a dictionary for his last birthday (for always asking questions, questions and more questions), and Mrs. Izuno's tone of voice reminds him of that word.
He nods emphatically. Conspiracy or not, wicked or not, there is ice cream on the line. Mother might not like sweets so much, but he certainly has no quarrel with them. As Mrs. Izuno sets him down, he elects not to look in mom's direction, in case her face should express any displeasure with the idea of an ice cream run.
"You'll spoil him, Mrs. Izuno," mother chides.
"Pah. He's a good kid. A great kid. Hell, I'd almost adopt him. Excuse my language, little man."
Hell: the place or state of punishment of the wicked after death; Gehenna; Tartarus; Hades.
Why would she need to be excused for stating the name of a place?
"He deserves some spoiling once-in-awhile," Mrs. Izuno goes on, "and besides, today's a day for celebration. So celebrate a little! It'll be on me."
Mother looks shocked, like she could protest. He speaks up before she gets the chance.
"Is it your birthday, Mrs. Izuno?" he asks.
"No way, not for another seven months. Don't try to make me any older than I already am, kiddo."
"A holiday, like Christmas?"
"No, no, nothing like that. This celebration's special for your momma, the best intern I've ever had. I intend to officially hire her when she passes the bar tomorrow."
"If I pass the bar," mother murmurs.
"When she passes the bar," Mrs. Izuno repeats.
Mother smiles, blushes, shakes her head. "I've had wonderful guidance."
To which Mrs. Izuno pooh-poohs.
Bar: a relatively long, evenly shaped piece of some solid substance, as metal or wood, used as a guard or obstruction or for some mechanical purpose.
He is thoroughly confused. Mother has to pass an obstruction? Like a test?
"Don't worry about it, kid," says Mrs. Izuno, ruffling his hair. "You'll pop a blood-vessel, you keep making strained faces like that. Just go home, enjoy your ice cream, and come tomorrow morning, before you go to school, give your mum a big kiss and tell her to kick butt."
"Whose butt is she kicking?"
"Jeez, you're a serious one, aren't you? Just wish her luck, okay?"
He nods. It's silly, he thinks, the act of "wishing luck," but it's very easy to do. Anyway, it seems to be generally appreciated.
"I'll wish her luck," he promises.
"Excellent." Turning to mother, "Now, about your imminent job-offer..."
How her boss can talk. A kind lady, warm-hearted, brilliant, compassionate to a fault, but a right magpie if Haruhi ever met one. Never mind that she is the number one lawyer in Japan.
Haruhi nods and nods as Yoshiko Izuno talks and talks and talks. Occasionally she shoots glances at her poor son, sitting on the swivel chair, falling asleep over the small, red pocket-dictionary she'd gotten him for his sixth birthday three weeks ago. Funny, she thinks, how much he loves that dictionary. She wonders how much vocabulary he is actually able to retain. Sometimes it seems as though he understands everything; at other times, he looks so extraordinarily baffled that Haruhi is compelled to meet with his teacher to find out if he seems alright during class. According to his grades and his teacher's high praises, he is rather a sight more than "alright." Haruhi can only suppose that it's a mother's lot to worry with or without reason.
As she watches him, his gray eyes flutter, his head rolls forward, he jolts upright. After a matter of seconds, his eyes flutter again. And repeat. At this moment, Haruhi wants nothing more than to take him home, feed him dinner, bathe him, get him to bed. She's not concerned about his homework (not terribly, anyway); he almost always finishes it at school. What she is concerned about is her father. Ranka would be waiting up for them, worrying his head off no doubt.
And it's no wonder, she muses, looking at her boy now. There is much to worry about. His size, for one thing—what a tiny child she made! For a six-year-old he looks more like four, a babyround face bobbing atop a body short and narrow. Too narrow, she sometimes fears, but no matter how much she encourages him to eat he tends to do little more than pick at a few choice foods (usually not the rice, the greens or the meats, but the sweet beans, the tofu, sometimes the fish) before setting aside his chopsticks and declaring himself too full to go on. Even her father has precious little luck in that department. Lactose intolerant too, yet the child loves ice cream—oh, does he ever love ice cream, no matter what kind of bellyache it gives him.
There's also the matter of his skin. So pale, people often think him ill and neglected. He does not bruise easily, but when he does bruise, it's an ugly sight. It would bother her if not for the fact that his father was (is, she corrects herself; he's still alive) equally pearl of skin.
"…oka? Are you listening, Fujioka?"
"Hmmmn? Er, sorry. Could you repeat that?"
Mrs. Izuno laughs. Thank god she is a forgiving woman.
"I know, I know, I've kept you too long already. Look, the poor kid's falling out of his chair."
Indeed he is. Haruhi reaches out and snatches her son up before he manages to slide out of the swivel seat. He is fast asleep on her shoulder. So light.
"Ah, what a good looking kid," comments Mrs. Izuno. "He looks just like you. There's no mistaking him. Doesn't quite have your eyes, though. Hair's darker, too."
Father's eyes, Haruhi broods, a pang and a flutter in her stomach. Father's hair.
It had been only a night; one breath, one moment with the man she loved. She loves him still. How foolish she had been to take her friends—to take her love—for granted. Even so, she has the gift he gave her, a life more precious to her than anything. Haruo Fujioka, her beautiful son.
"Okay, for the kid's sake I'll wrap this up."
Haruhi floats back to the present in a haze. Mrs. Izuno has a file folder in her hand, one that seems to have materialized out of nowhere. She spreads it out on Haruhi's desk.
"This is the first case I'd like to give you, Fujioka. It's not huge, but I think it's sufficient to test your mettle. Our client is one Kaname Nakamura, eighteen-years-old, recently a father. He wants custody of his newborn daughter, but his girlfriend, probably soon to be ex-girlfriend, wants to give the baby up for adoption. What do you think?"
Without missing a beat, "The child deserves her real father if he wants her, even if he is a bit young."
I was young once too, after all.
A wide smile from Mrs. Izuno. "My thoughts exactly, Fujioka. My thoughts exactly."
"Ready for that ice cream, champ?"
Mother's words reach him as if from a great distance—across a canyon; across an ocean; from above the ocean while he sinks beneath it. When he wakes he is on mother's shoulder. She smells of coffee and of ink, of lilies in the rain. She is warm.
They are outside in the dark (how long has it been?), and the air is heavy with an almost-storm. The weight of it makes him sticky and uncomfortable; he squirms to be released. Mother sets him down on the sidewalk. He still has the dictionary clutched tightly in his left hand. This he shoves into the pocket of his too-big jacket. It is Papa's jacket, in fact, Grandpa Ranka. A torn and frayed old cloth, gray and soft, he wears it even in summer, when only fools wear jackets, because he doesn't want to hurt Papa's feelings. Mother has tried many times to talk him out of it. Papa has tried many times to talk him out of it. It doesn't matter what they say. He wears Papa's old jacket everywhere.
"You're drowning in that thing, Haru," mother clucks, tugging at the jacket sleeve. "You sure you want that on right now? I'll hold it for you if it's too hot."
Haruo shakes his head fervently. No, he will not take it off.
Mother shrugs. "Suit yourself," and takes his hand.
Haruo's favorite ice cream shop is close enough to reach by foot. He would run to it, he knows the way so well, but mother grips him tight. And so he ambles. Rain falls as they walk, slow, soft rain, a misting drizzle. There is a word for this type of rain, Haruo knows. Mother taught it to him once, but he does not remember it now. E-something.
Ena? he wonders. Eko? Ebi?
He giggles at his last guess. There are so many words for rain. Which is the one he's looking for? Not kosame, which is merely small rain. Not yuudachi,which is a sudden unexpected rain in the evening time (although, he supposes it is also that). His lips purse. He purses them until they feel like raisins. He purses them until they ache. It does not help him remember.
At the crosswalk, the green man flashes for them to cross. Haruo tugs, but mother holds him back.
"Look both ways," she commands.
Haruo looks between mother's face and the flashing green man.
"I know the walk-signal is on, love," says mother, patient, smiling, "but you still need to look both ways."
Complying, he gazes left, right, left again. On one side, a few cars lined up, waiting; on the other, empty road, pedestrians, lamplights. Mother nods approval. He matches her step as they walk into the street. He only just remembers the word he is looking for when the shrill screech and the panicked horn blast cut through the buzzing citysound like cries of alarm.
Two hulking shapes, beasts of metal, spinning, sliding towards them.
Mother screaming nonononononono. Her hands knotting into his jacket. Lifting him. Shoving him so he flies, hard and far. Loud crraaaccck as his shoulder hits the edge of the sidewalk on the other side of the crossing. He rolls and rolls. Another krriiik! as his head bumps the streetlight pole. Red fires and white fires blurring his eyes. Metallic ringing in his ears.
What was the word he wanted? That word for rain that is mist?
His head hurts.
Where is mother?
His arm hurts. He wants to sleep.
Don't sleep, someone pleads. Don't sleep!
There are so many faces now, so many blurs. All surrounding him, staring, poking, shaking.
Don't sleep!
He wants to sleep.
Goodnight, mother, he says, or thinks he says, but he doesn't recognize his own voice.
Enu, he thinks, sinking, fading, but he is pleased to remember. The word is enu.
Misty rain.
~Chapter 1st: End~