So. This project is something that came on a complete and utter whim, so there's no excuse for it. All I hope is that you enjoy what you read and review at the end.
WARNING: I can say in total honesty that it is THE FLUFFIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN. T.T It's given me CAVETIES, guys. No joke. (Well, yeah, it kind of is. Har har, eh? Aren't I hilarious? ...that was typed sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell.) Also, I don't wish to offend anyone seeing as I've never been in a teen parent situation, so heads up for probably a lot of inaccuracies and such that I'll probably ignore. It's fluffy and cute though, so hopefully that'll make up for it? Enjoy!
Disclaimer: APH is not and never will be mine. That's just how it goes.
...
He had never seen something so beautiful.
And he had never been so afraid.
The bundle beyond the glass slept soundly, oblivious to anything, everything outside the safety of four crib walls. Each time the bundle twitched, his breath caught. Each time the little nose scrunched, a teary smile lit his face. Each time the infinitely tiny chest took a second too long to rise for his liking, he swore the world was ending. And each time it rose again, the world was reborn once more.
He jerked so violently when the nurse scooped the bundle from the crib that he nearly cried right there. The rational part of his mind knew he had nothing to worry about; the nurse wouldn't hurt the tiny thing, but he couldn't help the protective growl that built up in his throat. And then, suddenly, she was walking toward him, bundle in arms, and he almost ran because he knew – he knew, dammit – what she was going to ask him.
"Would you like to hold him, Mr. Kirkland?"
And how could he?
Arthur Kirkland was barely sixteen years old; how could he possibly ever be worthy of something so incredibly, impossibly precious? He couldn't be – he could never be. So he honestly had no idea why he extended his arms anyway.
And then that bundle, that precious little cargo, was in his arms, so unbelievably small and fragile and pure that he didn't know what to do at first.
The nurse smiled knowingly as she positioned Arthur's hands correctly to support the little thing. Arthur didn't even object to being helped, didn't protest on his dignity's behalf and say he could figure it out himself - a testament to his shock.
"There." Once the bundle the bundle was secure in the blonde's grasp, the nurse carefully, slowly pulled the blanket away from the child's face for Arthur to see, and—
And Arthur's world stopped.
"…My God," A shaking hand came slowly, slowly for God's sake, to trace the cheek of the most perfect thing in the world. "My God, he's so beautiful…"
His fingers gently ghosted over the boy's features – his nose, his closed, soft lashes, tiny pink lips, downy blond wisps of hair, back to his cheek – when the boy began to stir. "Ah…"
He looked to the nurse fearfully, unsure of what to do, and received only an amused smile in response. Well, she clearly was of no help at all. After shooting her a withering glare, he nervously returned his gaze to the infant in his arms.
Only to find two curious blue eyes staring back at him.
"Ah… I… Um…?"
The child was unperturbed by Arthur's incoherency and blinked up at him in wide-eyed wonder. Arthur, for his part, had forgotten how to breathe.
"H… H-Hello," He choked out at last, completely oblivious to the nurse's giggling as a smile, warm and adoring, bloomed on his lips, "Hello, love… It's good to meet you. God, it's so wonderful to meet you…"
He had no idea how long it was he remained there, pressing butterfly kisses and whispering nothings to the most precious thing in the world, before the nurse finally spoke again. "I didn't quite catch his name, Mr. Kirkland, if you don't mind…?"
And when at last Arthur answered, he didn't even look up, gaze locked lovingly on those endless blue eyes before him.
"Alfred. His name is Alfred."
…
Francis was sure he was going to hell.
Because he should have hated this child. This small, sleeping infant, without a care in the world… he should have rejected it. He should have been stronger, should have loathed, repelled this baby, the one that had, with its breath, taken away the air from the lungs of his most precious person, the beat from her heart with its own.
People weren't supposed to die in childbirth anymore. But Jeanne had, his world, the love of his life had, and it was this child's fault. He should have abandoned it. Should have ignored it. Should have walked away and never looked back. He should have… He should have…
He loved this child.
"Matthew…" The tears were coming again, and he rocked the baby with a tenderness and love and overwhelming guilt that it nearly consumed him. "Mon petit, mon amour… Mon Matthieu." He nuzzled his nose against his son's cheek, trying to quell his sobs. A conversation returned to him, and he shook harder.
" 'Matthieu', my dear? Are you sure? Napoleon is such a more dashing name, non?"
"Our son will perfectly dashing with the name Matthew, Francis. I think it's lovely."
It had been the only thing they'd disagreed on regarding their future son. At seventeen Francis was married and a soon-to-be father, ostracized from his family, but he couldn't care less. He knew what passion was; what puppy love and summer flings were, because he'd had them all. But this, what he'd had with Jeanne… it had been different. He knew it every time their hands touched, every time their eyes met. Every time they bickered or bantered, every time she spoke. He knew it every time she looked over at him with her beautiful violet eyes, and smiled. It had been love.
When he'd learned of Jeanne's pregnancy, he'd married her in a heartbeat; they'd had full intention to wed anyway, so what was a few years in advance? Well, apparently a lot to Francis; family. Rich, high class marquis' – they hadn't approved of Jeanne to begin with, coming from a lover class family. She had made it to Francis; prestigious school through scholarship alone, through hard work and intellect.
She was nothing like any other any other girl Francis had been with, She was witty and charming, clever and strong, proud yet modest. She never feared to speak her mind, nor did she ever back down from a challenge. And still, she had been kind and gentle. She was perfect. She was everything Francis had been looking for, and when his family had demanded he leave her lest her status and child bring a disgrace to the family, he had outright refused.
There had been no ill consequence, so to speak; his parents had let him keep his shares and inheritance on the condition that he got the fuck out of their lives and never came back. Francis had been all too happy to oblige.
Disowned and alone, Francis and Jeanne had moved to Quebec, Canada to live with Jeanne's parents – they had recently relocated there – until they got on their feet and could find their own place. It was there they'd made their home, and excitedly awaited their newborn's arrival. Jeanne had always had a weak constitution, but they had been assured by every doctor that it would be fine. The worst they had to worry about had been their son's name.
Jeanne had wanted Matthew. Francis… not so much. He had pushed for Napoleon, or Jacques, or Francois. But not something like Matthew, so incredibly un-French, like his childhood enemy (friend) Arthur who he now coincidentally lived closer to. But Jeanne had been resolute. She had insisted that in the end, Francis would agree with her, and their son would go by the name Matthew. Francis had laughed and shook his head.
But it seemed Jeanne always got what she wanted in the end.
"My precious Matthew… He's perfect, Jeanne…"
Because now there was no name more beautiful than that.
…
Filthy Spaniard.
Worthless scum.
Orphen brat.
The names Romulus had heard them call the boy carried much worse. And Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had always taken it all with a smile.
When Romulus first stumbled upon him, it had been while navigating through the high class streets of Italy he called home. It was a bit fancy for his tastes, but he could afford the best, so why not? As he was walking back from the only fresh produce market anywhere near home – it was far away and for commoners, but that why he liked it; the friendly, down to earth atmosphere – when he passed an alley harboring a gang of young Italian hoodlums, laughing and jeering. Which wasn't really uncommon, and Romulus might have walked away if the biting words hadn't become clearer.
"Fucking Spanish dog!"
"Makes sense the bastard would protect one of his own."
"Bark for us, mutt! Serenade us! Torro, torro!"
Only then did Romulus realize they were attacking a young boy.
After they scattered (Romulus may have been older, but he was still strong and pretty damn terrifying when he wanted to be) he approached the crouched figure in the corner of the alley, as slowly and carefully as possible.
"Are you all right, son?"
No answer. He didn't even twitch.
Romulus frowned; perhaps the hoodlums had done more damage to the poor boy than he'd originally thought. But just as he reached out to shake his shoulder, the head, previously hung low and lifeless, lifted, and Romulus found himself staring into tired, weary, yet warm and grateful emerald eyes. Eyes that matched an impossibly bright smile, despite the blood and bruising, already beginning to swell.
"Gracias, Señor," He paused, blinking thoughtfully. "Ah, lo siento… Grazie… Signore?"
He smiled sheepishly, and Romulus could only stare, dumbfounded. The kid couldn't have been above fifteen, not to mention he had just got the shit beat out of him. Not to mention he was Spanish, and given that this really wasn't a Spaniard friendly neighborhood, this was likely to happen again. So how the hell could he smile like that?
After a moment of unabashed staring, Romulus finally shook his head and forced a wide grin. When he spoke, it was in fluid Spanish. "It's no problem, boy. Come, let's get you cleaned up."
The wounded teen gaped, completely baffled, before nodding vigorously. Romulus puffed a little with pride; it had been years since he'd spoken that language, and damn right it was impressive. He watched the boy uncurl and stand on shaky legs, and found himself surprised to see a small bundle in his arms.
"What's that?"
The boy paused for a brief moment, protectively, before opening his arms to reveal a small, dirty, whimpering puppy. At the older man's confused expression, he said quietly, "They were hurting him… kicking him, and stuff. So I stepped in, and…" He gestured to his worn, bruised body with an amicable smile, "Well, you know the rest. I would've fought back, but then I'd have had t put the dog down, and they would've gone after it again."
As the boy fussed over his tiny charge, Romulus was once again reduced to staring. This boy, he thought as he watched the young Spaniard laugh at the warm tongue now lapping his bruised cheek, is really something else.
By the time he had taken the boy back, whose name he had learned was Antonio, and had the servers clean him up and dress his wounds, he had made his decision. Speaking with the boy, he learned he had a passion for tomatoes and a green thumb. Before the day was out, Romulus ha found himself a gardener (later he would swear an brag that Antonio was the best gardener he'd ever had, and it would be the truth).
In a few months time, Antonio was a part of the household, loved by all the servants and even befriending the stuffy Austrian, Roderich – Romulus' young and talented personal musician. It had taken some warming up, but when Roderich learned that Antonio could play the guitar and knew some classic Spanish composers, the two seemed to get along much better.
But by the time the next year rolled around, Antonio sixteen and Roderich seventeen, change fell upon the manor. In the form of Romulus' two newborn grandchildren.
Their names were Lovino and Feliciano.
Lovino was the elder by minutes, and while nearly identical, his eyes were a bright, clear green, the emerald hue on par with Antonio's own, while his twin's were a warm amber-brown. Romulus had brought them home with no warning, and the first he presented them to were his young musician and gardener.
Upon hearing the news, Roderich's deep violet eyes lit with suspicion, but he said nothing. Rarely did his employer keep secrets, but at that moment with a mixture of pride and love and deep, hard sadness on Romulus; face, Roderich kept silent.
He was mildly impressed (not that he'd ever show it) that Antonio didn't push the matter – as to why two infants had suddenly been put in their Grandfather's care instead of their parents with little to no warning – given that the Spaniard was generally oblivious and unintentionally blunt. He had his moments of true empathy, though (which was not to say he lacked sympathy; his sense of kindness and goodhearted ways could rival that gentle Lithuanian Roderich had met a year back). However, there was a chance this incident of sensitivity could be credited to the fact that Antonio was absolutely infatuated with the twins.
And it was clear; the Spanish teen was smitten. The first child he'd locked eyes with had been Lovino, and he hadn't been able to tear his gaze from him.
"Would you like to hold him?" Romulus chuckled in amusement. He had to admit, he was impressed – Lovino had been, out of the two of them, the problem child. He had yet to stop wailing, couldn't stay still for anyone, slept fitfully, and so far, had not found a single person his tiny self seemed to be able to stand, Romulus included.
Feliciano, in comparison, was an angel; gentle and bright, always laughing or smiling, able to capture the attention and hearts of everyone who set eyes on him. It wasn't hard to see the beginnings of a troubled brotherhood of jealousy and neglect, and Romulus' heart sunk for his grandsons. And then, of course, there was Antonio.
The boy never ceased to amaze him. While he had expressed his affection for Feliciano (very loudly expressed, much to Roderich's chagrin), he seemed taken with his green eyed brother. He held the boy with a tenderness Romulus had never seen, laughing instead of scowling when Lovino tried to push him away or pulled his hair, tied back in a low, loose ribbon. He sung him soft Spanish lullabies when the child's cries grew to those born of weariness, and before they knew it, Lovino was sleeping soundly, cradled in Antonio's arms.
"Wow," Romulus said, whistling low. "That's never happened before. He hasn't even done that for me,"
Antonio just laughed bashfully, rocking the slumbering Italian lovingly. When, a few hours later, both the teen and the baby were passed out on the couch, Roderich sighed and Romulus smirked.
"I apologize for him, sir. Falling asleep like that, when you just brought them home today…" He clicked his tongue in disapproval, not noticing Romulus' grin as the older Italian reached over and mussed his immaculate chocolate hair. Roderich squawked in offense, quickly stepping back and huffing.
"If you're referring to the fact that I'd have liked to actually spend some time with my grandsons," Romulus started casually, ignoring the musician's glare (at least, Roderich assumed he was being ignored; Romulus was just as oblivious as Antonio sometimes, so it was exceedingly hard to tell whether he was pretending not to take notice or if he actually didn't.) "Then I'd have to point out that you've been hogging Feliciano all day."
He howled with laughter at Roderich's furious blush and stutter, clutching the child closer in an incriminating way. He sniffed haughtily, flipping his nose, before extending his arms and offering his equally unconscious bundle back. Romulus couldn't help but chuckle as he reclaimed his grandson – try as Roderich might, it was obvious to see his reluctance to return the infant. Both teens were head over heels for the two new additions to the house.
And Romulus had his answer.
Answer to what, Roderich and Antonio wouldn't know until two short weeks later. When a speeding driver turned a corner too fast, skidding out of control, and almost ran headlong into a young girl. When Romulus pushed her out of the way, only to get him himself.
When Romulus, indestructible, loud, loved by all Romulus, died.
Only then did the two grief-stricken teens find out, by a serious German man, Romulus' lawyer – and, he reluctantly said and with more sadness than he would admit to, his best friend – that the day after he brought the twins home, Romulus had finalized the will. And that, Antonio for Lovino and Roderich likewise for Feliciano, they had been named the guardians respectively and separately should anything happen to him.
The German man, despite thinking the move irresponsible and having tried to talk Romulus out of it at the time, fought hard for his friend's last wishes, and before Antonio, only sixteen, knew it, he held Lovino in his arms with a new title to his name. He kissed the boy's forehead softly, a sad smile on his face as little hands tried to push him away:
Father.
…
At sixteen, Gilbert Beilschmidt, personally, thought his mother was too old to be having kids.
"I'm just sayin'," He would start, "You're a little past your prime, ma – ow!"
At which point he would promptly get smacked over the head by his uptight nazi of a father while his mother would just laugh good naturedly.
That didn't stop him from openly stating his opinions on his mother's pregnancy, though. In fact, the only that seemed to shut the 'awesome' Gilbert Beilschmidt up was the delivery itself – his father had been caught in traffic, so he was to wait with his mother until he arrived.
Gilbert, for the first time, was rendered speechless.
(And then he passed out.)
(Luckily, his dad had made it in the end, so Gilbert's unconscious presence wasn't sorely missed.)
The silverette was star-struck. He spent as much time as he could with the new baby (much to his parents' amusement), Ludwig, who he affectionately dubbed West (also much to his parents. Confusion, yes, but amusement nonetheless). He bragged about his little brother's perfection to anyone who would listen, neighbors, friends, strangers that made the mistake of commenting on the baby's cuteness only to get an earful of Gilbert for the next fifteen to twenty minutes.
The prime victim of his extreme pride was his childhood frienemy Elizaveta, who had been in Hungary visiting family when the baby had actually come. He called her constantly, just to give her an update on what Ludwig had done recently. He was especially excited when, because his parents had to fly to Rome for the funeral of an old family friend (Gilbert did feel bad about that; his dad seemed kind of torn up about it, which was unusual for the normally stoic man), and to settle some matters of said friend's will, he got to stay and watch Ludwig for a week.
His mother had left him money for baby formula, and his father had drilled every precaution and rule to follow so nothing bad happened. Elizaveta, despite her adamant complaints to Gilbert about how much he wasted her time, would always smile when he called; he'd never sounded more happy.
Which was why it worried her immensely when he suddenly stopped calling.
She waited a day, hoping the line had just been temporarily disconnected. The silence was unnerving when she was used to him calling every couple of hours and texting even more often, but surely he'd call soon. Nothing to worry about. The baby was fine. Gilbert was fine. Everything was fine.
But when he still didn't call, and the pressure got to her enough to pick up the phone to call him instead, and he still didn't answer, then the fear took hold. The line was fine, and she doubted he'd gone anywhere; for one thing, his parents were supposed to be in Rome – or were they? If she remembered right, then they should have been home a day or two ago. Either way, even if he had gone somewhere, he kept his phone on him at all times, and always answered her texts. So what had happened?
She called more, convinced that something was terribly wrong. On her fourth call in an hour, as she was packing her things – no, she was not going home early because she was worried, she was just… homesick. Yeah. – he picked up.
"Hello?"
Elizaveta froze; she hadn't honestly expected him to answer, and it was a losing battle to try and keep the relief from her voice.
"Gilbert! God, you idiot, where have you been—?"
"Elizaveta."
She was pulled to a halt at the sound of his voice. He laughed on the other end, and she cringed at the sound, still speechless.
"Everything's fine, okay? So you can cool it with the calling. That ring's gonna give me a migraine, and my awesome doesn't do migraines."
"Gilbert—"
"Everything's fine, Eliza. I've just been busy with West. Alrighty? You enjoy your 'family time' or whatever other sissy stuff you're doing. Bye!"
The line went dead, and Elizaveta was left staring, dumbfounded, at the phone. Gilbert had sounded… fine, she supposed. Bright, loud, obnoxious… Just like he always did. There was nothing to worry about. He was doing well. She didn't have to go home earlier, after all; she could relax, knowing Gilbert was fine.
She was on a flight to the States within an hour.
Deep down, while she would never admit it aloud, she knew it was because she was so finely attuned to Gilbert's feelings. She'd known him as long as she could remember, and had always been able to tell when something was wrong, even when some of the adults couldn't. And something in Gilbert's voice when he spoke, something in his laugh… it sounded so wrong she wanted to cry. And when she got back, and learned what had happened from the neighbors, she did.
Gilbert's parents had died in a plane crash.
She sat on his couch in silence for twenty minutes as he moved about the – too quiet, too empty – house. He made her coffee, went through at least five cigarettes (all outside or out the window, far from the baby), and walked Ludwig around, soothing him into a deep, peaceful slumber. It was one thing to hear it on the phone, but another completely to see it in person.
Elizaveta had never seen such gentleness and warmth than in the way Gilbert held his brother. His hands became loving, soft – she hadn't even known his hands were capable of such tenderness. She saw it in the little things he did; the way he smiled, just barely, whenever he looked at the child, the soothing motion of brushing back feather soft locks of blond hair.
Once he was sure Ludwig was sleeping soundly, Gil came and sat gingerly beside her, careful not to wake him. She took the child when he offered, allowing him to position her hands despite knowing perfectly well how to properly support a baby.
"He's gorgeous, Gilbert,"
The first words said between them, and he smiled – it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. He's my brother after all." Gilbert traced a long, pale finger across a chubby cheek warmly. They lapsed into another silence, he watching his brother, she watching him. And then, at last, even knowing the answer—
"Are you okay?"
"Me? Yeah, I'm awesome. A little tired 'cause West finds it fun to wake me up every twenty minutes, the brat, but when I get used to it I'll be fine—"
"Gilbert." His voice broke and faded when she said his name, when her free hand came and cupped his cheek, gently brought his head up until their eyes met. "You know what I mean. Are you okay?"
Red eyes fluttered shut and he breathed deeply through his nose, holding, holding until it hurt, until his lungs felt like they were going to burst, but it didn't matter and he smiled something hollow and fake and broken as he leaned into her touch.
"No. No, I'm… I'm not, Eliza."
Elizaveta's heart broke.
"What do I do…? Vati and mom are gone, and… and I'll never get them back."
"Gilbert…"
"I love West, but I can't take care of him. I'm a delinquent; I'm a screw up. West was mom and dad's second chance at a good kid, and now they're gone and I'm alone and I don't know what to do because they didn't name any guardians and he deserves better than me because I'm just not good enough—"
She hugged him then.
It was one armed since she was still holding Ludwig, and kind of painful and awkward because she had to twist to get a hold of him, but she wouldn't dream of letting go for the world. Her arm tightened around him when he stiffened, and for a terrifying moment she was sure he would pull away, far away, where she couldn't reach him – but then he was returning the embrace. A moment later and he began shaking, burying his face in her shoulder as suppressed sobs racked his frame.
"W-What do I do, Eliza? Vati and mom… are gone. They're gone. What if… Gott, what if they take Ludwig, too? What if we're separated? They can't take him too, they – they can't—"
"They won't," She rubbed his back soothingly, kissed the top of his head, anything to keep those demons plaguing him at bay. "They won't, Gilbert. You'll keep him and be a great big brother, and I'll be there to help you if you need it. But they won't take him away. I promise."
And all Gilbert could do was nod until he believed it, because he'd break otherwise, and neither of them could afford that now. So they remained, holding each other together even as the rest of the world fell apart, moved on, without them.
Between them, Ludwig slept soundly.
…
Yao Wang was eldest.
His brother was next, Maddox, younger by two years. A year below him was Yao's only sister, Mei. When Yao was only seven, his parents were shot in a bank hold up when their family was relocated to America.
Yao was still learning English when he and his siblings were thrown into the foster care system and fell through the cracks.
Six months later they met the newest addition to their broken family: a small boy, energetic and smiley despite the fact that his parents were lost to an earthquake back in Korea, while he was sent over for a vacation with his uncle. The same uncle that, upon hearing of his sister's and her husband's death, fell to the drink and abandoned the child, who was soon dumped into foster care with a Chinese boy and his siblings.
Yao, after what he and his young sister and brother had been through, especially after the first half a year in an abusive home as such, was not quick to trust. Even so, by the time Yao had turned seventeen, Yong Soo was just as much his younger sibling whom he would die to protect as Maddox and Mei were.
And it was in that time, only a month after his seventeenth birthday, that Yao met the last addition to their family: Kiku.
Kiku Honda was an infant, not even a year old. His father had been a hard working businessman, his mother a successful chef. However, when Mr. Honda died in a shooting similar to the one in which Yao had lost his parents, Mrs. Honda had not been able to cope. So one night, after putting baby Kiku to sleep in the next room, she called the police and very calmly asked for their assistance. With that settled, she sat down, put a pistol in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.
Kiku was crying for hours in his crib before the police showed up. When they found the tragedy, they found Mrs. Honda's will as well, neatly waiting for them on the coffee table. It stated that everything went to Kiku, and that Kiku himself would be cared for by the only family they had in the States – a very distant cousin, who happened to be the foster mother to Yao and his siblings.
The state, in the end, agreed that he should go to family, and was soon put in the care of the distant cousin and her husband. Which, really, meant Kiku was put in the care of Yao.
For two years Yao had been in this house – the longest of all their stays, as they normally got bounced to another within the first few months – and never once had either of their guardians done any parenting.
Well, when one thought about it seriously, none of their guardians ever had. Yao, since the moment his parents died, had been forced to fill the role required of him for his family's survival. That, of course, included this place – not home, Yao hadn't been home since he was seven years old and in China – where the woman, Mrs. Honda's relative, was a thieving, neglecting junkie, and her husband was an abusive drunk.
Yao, once again, had found a job to feed and clothe his siblings, and hopefully raise and protect them from their guardians' rages. He had been fully intent on clearing out the moment he turned eighteen, taking his family with him; yes, there would be a search, but only a half-assed one and Yao was clever enough to outwit even a skilled search party anyway. And then Kiku had come, and Yao had been forced to change his plans.
In the beginning, they had been enraged – how could the social workers place an innocent, defenseless infant with those two? It was a crime; it was heinous. It was soon clear that if it had not been for Yao and his siblings the boy wouldn't have made it, and even they were pushing it. Yao had been forced to grow up, fast and hard – several bruises and welts were proof of it – but this child had a chance at something better… as long as he didn't stay there.
When the man, drunker than usual, flew into a rage at Kiku's crying and nearly attacked the boy (he only didn't because Yong Soo, who had been holding Kiku at the time, refused to hand him over and managed to call Yao, Maddox and Mei before he was forced to comply – his eye was still black for that) Yao had made his decision.
That night, with Yao seventeen, Maddox fifteen, Mei and Yong Soo fourteen and Kiku less than a year old, the five children stole away, never to return.
For a few days they squatted in Kiku's old apartment – it had yet to be rented out, and the teens managed to pity the super into giving them some time there. Once they were mildly recuperated, they left again, and using money Yao and Maddox had been saving for years, managed to rent a small apartment far away.
They were safe. Weren't they? Were they truly safe? Had he succeeded? Yao hadn't slept in days, the anxiety was so strong.
But then again.
When was the last time Yao had truly slept either, had dreamt of something other than pain and loss? He couldn't remember. But that didn't matter, he supposed; dreams of pandas and bamboo forests at home and nights laughing with his siblings were for children – for those who could afford to be children. Not for Yao. He didn't want such dreams anyway.
Yao now only wanted to sleep.
"He'll be okay, Yao. We all will."
Yao had been startled by the statement. It was their first night in the new place, and he was rocking a crying Kiku to sleep after waking up in the middle of the night. He'd thought the others had been long asleep; but as always, his siblings found ways to surprise him. Tonight it was Maddox.
With Kiku quieting down, Yao carefully squatted down beside his first brother (there was only enough room for two to squeeze on the bed, and Maddox and Yao had volunteered for the floor with the blankets they'd taken from the foster home).
"I know that, Maddox. What would make you say something like that, aru?"
Maddox said nothing, reaching over with long, elegant fingers to swipe through Kiku's silken black hair. Yao smiled minutely; he'd taken to the boy immediately having always had a soft spot for cute things. In his sleep, Kiku's grip tightened on the small panda plushie Yao had bought him, and his smile widened. Kiku, at least, should deserve a childhood.
"We will be alright now. You've done well."
Again Yao started, and looked up to meet cool, golden eyes. Maddox's expression was as collected as usual, but there was an unbridled confidence in his striking optics. Yao's smile morphed, the corners of his mouth pulling down.
"Why would you—"
"Because even you need to hear it sometimes. You've been worried for him – you haven't let him go since we left – and you've been worried for all of us. But you needn't worry now. We're together now, and we will be fine, Brother."
At Maddox's sudden switch to Chinese, Cantonese even, Yao's eyes widened. After a moment, he swallowed, and nodded.
"We will be fine." His grip on Kiku tightened, and Maddox hummed reassuringly. "Starting now… We will be fine."
For the first time in ten years, Yao slept peacefully, his family at his side and little brother in his arms.
At last.
…
Done. This seriously screwed me up to write, it was so... NOT tragedy, but hopefully you enjoyed it. It's just a fun project for me, despite the total inaccuracies, so I really hope no one takes offense and will just treat it as an unrealistic teen-parency story, because that's what it is, and while I'll try to do some baby research and whatnot, chances are I'll fail miserably and continue to spew random fluffy crap. So... yeah. XD
A giant thanks to everyone who actually finished this chapter. I know it's long, and I apologize. This was the introductory chapter, where you meet all the different teens and their respective charges BEFORE they meet each other, so it was necessary. (And for those who care, worry not, Ivan will come in due course. XD) I'll only continue it if you guys want me to though, because yes, I AM that selfish, so please, please review?
The plot will start in a few chapters, and until then, we get to see some of the child/parent milestones, such as walking, talking etc. Next chapter is: diaper changing. XD Sounds like a fun time, no? Hopefully I'll see you all there, then! (but ONLY IF I GET REVIEWS!) Pathetic author is done now.
There was a silence