AhahaHAHAaHAAaahaha I wasn't supposed to write this.
Happy 2017! Yes, I know I have three different stories to work on, but I couldn't resist writing this one-shot and it is my first one so I wanted to try it out. Because I've read fanfics before that made me pity the almighty tyrant Akashi Masaomi, I wanted to try it too. So here you go, some nice fluff to brighten your day. So without further ado...
I hope you enjoy!
Tranquil… Quiet… Peaceful… Those were the words that Masaomi could use to describe the atmosphere around him as he gazed at his wife.
"Isn't he beautiful, darling?"
"Yes, Shiori. He is," the man answered. The 'he' they were talking about was the infant cradled to the woman's chest. He was so small and frail, yet so perfect, like a porcelain doll. The baby's eyes were closed as it continued sleeping. He had fiery red hair like his mother's, making the two of them almost identical. He almost smiled at their similarities.
"And his name?" Shiori looked up and smiled at him.
"His name is Seijuro."
Seijuro. Perfect subjugation. A fitting name for a member of the Akashi family.
As he eyed the child from where he was standing, he gave his wife a nod of the head. Akashi Seijuro. With his careful guidance, no, with their careful guidance, this boy had a very bright future ahead of him.
…
"Seijuro, come here. I want to show you something."
A little boy of the age of five walked over to his mother who was on the other side of the garden. It was a warm summer afternoon and the sun was high in the sky, the woman shading herself with a white parasol. The boy looked up at her and blinked.
"Yes, mother?"
"I have a little present for you," she said. "Here."
In her other hand, she was holding an orange leather-surfaced ball which she handed to him. Seijuro eyed it with some curiosity as he tilted his head to the side before taking it from her.
"What is this?" he asked her.
"It's a basketball, dear. You were watching a game on the TV the other day, remember? This is the ball they use to play."
"Really?" Seijuro turned the ball around in his hold, feeling the texture, and taking in the ball's vibrant appearance, the way the black lines crisscross around it, the way the sun overhead accentuates the color. He was entranced. "I can have it?" Shiori chuckled.
"Of course. I got it just for you." The boy's face lit up with pure elation as he gave his mother a smile of childish glee.
"Thank you very much, mother!"
Masaomi watched the two from the entrance to the garden as Seijuro began to run with the basketball, bouncing it up and down across the grass. Shiori took her eyes off their son for a moment and spotted her husband watching, beckoning him over.
"Look how much fun he's having," she said. Masaomi's eyes softened at the melodious ring of her contented voice.
"I suppose basketball is a fine sport to play," he replied. "As long as it does not interfere with his progress, I have no complaints." Shiori and Masaomi continued to watch their child from afar, the young boy happily playing with his new present.
…
Five years down the line Masaomi is sitting in a chair in the hospital face to face with the doctor, his forehead lines wrinkling, his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth pulled into a distraught frown as he took in a deep breath.
"How sick is she?"
The doctor removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Very sick, sir," he answered. "Her immune system is weak. Even though we've been treating her for days her symptoms are getting far worse than I ever imagined. It's only a matter of time before—"
"Before what, doctor?"
The man bit his tongue and took a moment to change his sentence. "Sir we're doing everything we can but her illness is too much for her body. She…might not make it through the night." Masaomi's body stiffened and he glared daggers at the doctor before him, his icy golden eyes flashing with unfathomable fury.
"What did you just say?"
The nurse who was tending to Masaomi's wife came out of her room and approached the two men.
"I apologize for the interruption, but Shiori-san has requested for you." Masaomi stared at the nurse for some moments before standing up from his chair in the hall and walking into the room. Seijuro, their now ten-year-old son, was already inside. Before he was summoned, he could hear his idle chat as he spoke with his mother, but now it was completely silent. Masaomi took in their son's expression. Fear. Horror. Dread. It was all written there on his face as he stared with his wide crimson eyes at his father before turning his attention back his mother in the bed. Shiori looked unnaturally pale, still as ever under the covers. So small, yet so frail.
Like a porcelain doll…
"Father…something's wrong with mother," Seijuro said to him, his voice small and afraid. Masaomi bent over the hospital bed to take a good look at his wife. His hand ghosted across the side of her face, brushing the hair out of her closed eyes. She was barely conscious, and the beeping coming from the heart monitor on her bedside was slow, way too slow for someone who should have had a mild illness. This was not good.
"I'll go get the nurse back in here." Masaomi was just about to go when suddenly he heard the ruffle of sheets and soon a hand was gripping his own. It was Shiori's hand. Even though her hold on him was weak, and he could have easily broken out of it, somehow, he still managed to be frozen in place.
"It's okay, my love."
He heard the heart monitor pick up just a little bit before looking down and locking eyes with his wife. She was smiling as if all was right with the world. "You don't have to call the nurse."
"Don't be ridiculous, Shiori. Of course I'm going to call her in," Masaomi responded. The grip on his hand got tighter.
"It's alright," she said. "I told them not to interfere anymore." Masaomi's eyes widened in horror.
"…What do you mean by that?" Shiori sighed and shook her pretty head, looking off to the side of the room.
"I've had a very weak body since I was born, and even in my youth, I was constantly sick. As I got older, I was sick less of the time, but when I was, the symptoms were far worse. I know myself better than anyone, my love. My symptoms are too severe this time. I won't recover from this."
"When did you make this decision?" Masaomi demanded. "I was not informed of this earlier."
"Just today. I had a feeling it would turn out this way… So, I would like to have my husband and my son stay with me until the end." Shiori lets go of her husband's hand and moved it over to Seijuro's face. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, the redheaded boy biting his lower lip to keep it from quivering.
"Please don't look like that, dear," she said softly. "You'll make me sad."
"Please… Please don't go, mother." He was grabbing her hand tightly like it was his lifeline, his whole body was shaking, and his watery crimson eyes spoke volumes of his despair. Her delicate thumb stroked his cheek lovingly to soothe her child.
"Both of you, don't be sad for my sake. I want you to smile for me, as my last request." Seijuro looked up at his father, who, after some intense internal debating, finally resigned and nodded.
"Of course, Shiori." She smiled at the both of them.
"Thank you. I love you both."
Everything faded to black.
—
Masaomi opened his eyes to find himself lying in bed in his house. He blinks once to force his eyes to adjust to the dark room before checking his digital clock on his bedside table, which told him it was 3:07 in the morning. He grunted as he sat up in bed. He was dreaming about Shiori again.
Masaomi was a man who rarely had dreams. But when he did dream, it was always about her. The way she looked, the way she talked, the way she smiled, and everything in between. Sometimes, the contents of his dreams would change, but they always ended the same: him and his son standing over her and watching her life fade away in that wretched hospital. To this day, the ending has never changed.
It's been six years since it happened.
Every time he would wake up from these bittersweet dreams, his mind was in shambles and every part of his body ached. Sometimes he would even wake up with a killer headache which would force him to get out of bed and drag himself downstairs, fumbling around in the darkness for two tablets of aspirin and a glass of water. At least he didn't wake up with a headache this time.
The first few times he began having these dreams, he would always just lie awake in bed and continue to suffer from his thoughts until his body couldn't take it anymore and fell asleep. But now, he had a different method to cure his problems. It had worked miracles on his stress levels, but as the years progressed, he wondered whether he would ever grow out of this habit he had. He stood up from his bed, putting his feet into the pair of slippers that were arranged neatly on the floor before shrugging on his robe and exiting the bedroom. He sighed.
I shouldn't be doing this.
Walking down the ever-quiet hallways of his home, he wondered how many times he had walked down them at this time of night, taking in the silence, embracing the darkness, and basking in the moonlight that poured through each window. Too many, he thought to himself.
His body was set on autopilot, knowing the exact twists and turns to make from his room to the room he was seeking in the house.
I shouldn't be doing this.
He finally reached the intended corridor, going past several doors until he stopped at the one he was searching for. He stared at it for a moment.
I shouldn't be doing this.
He reached for the door handle and quietly twisted it, opening the door to the room. A bedroom, in fact. The bedroom was elegant and organized. On one side of the room was a desk where multiple folders and books sat on top in their own respective stacks. At the far table on the other side was shogi board, the pieces arranged as if someone were in the middle of a game but had stopped. The bookshelf near the door was as immaculate as ever, filled with several works from both local and foreign writers alike, not a single speck of dust on it. But that wasn't what he was going to focus on for now. What he was going to focus on was the sleeping figure in the center of the room belonging to one Akashi Seijuro.
Masaomi stepped in, leaving his son's door open just a crack before silently moving across his room over to the bed. Then, carefully, so he doesn't disturb the now sixteen-year old's sleep, he cautiously sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a moment to look at his son's face. He was fully relaxed, his chest rhythmically rising and falling with every slow breath he took and his expression was peaceful and innocent, his mouth slightly open as he slept. Masaomi's large hand reached up and he placed it on the top of Seijuro's sleeping head before running his fingers through his hair.
Back and forth... Back and forth… Back and forth…
Seijuro's breath hitched for a moment as his body registered the soothing sensation before his breathing evened out and he continued sleeping, unconsciously moving closer to the hand that was gently caressing his bright red locks. The corner of Masaomi's lips twitched very slightly upwards at the action, but he said nothing and continued moving the hand back and forth through his son's hair. As he watched the teenager, he couldn't help but think how painfully similar he looked to Shiori. Which is why after all these years, every time he had those dreams, he would come here to find solace in his son's presence.
As a man in his late forties, Masaomi thought he was far too old and mature to have to seek comfort in someone else's presence. Yet without fail, after every dream, he was always in here, sitting on the edge of Seijuro's bed his hand moving continuously through his hair while he slept. Of course, there was a reason why he never did this when Seijuro was awake. He didn't want his son to see him like this; a mere broken hollow shell of the man he was supposed to be. An Akashi wasn't weak. An Akashi never showed emotions. An Akashi didn't miss anyone. An Akashi didn't need to be comforted. So why was he sitting in this room again after all these years? It was like every time he thought he was over his wife's death, he would have that same dream again which was his subconscious' way of telling him that he wasn't.
Seijuro doesn't have to know about this. Perhaps he will never know. Maybe one day when he wakes up in the morning he'll vaguely wonder if he really did feel a hand on his head in the middle of the night, but he won't know who it was. Maybe it was for the best. Masaomi originally tried to distance himself from Seijuro over the years, so he wouldn't have to look into those eyes and remember that familiar yet distant woman in the past. There was a point when his son's behavior changed around two years previous. Suddenly he was cold and emotionless, and his left eye had turned a golden yellow, but even then, he still came into his room to watch over him while he slept for a little while. But then quite recently, when Seijuro came home from that winter basketball tournament, he told his father that his team had placed second with both of his eyes a thawed, perfect crimson. The look in his eyes magnified Masaomi's emotions intensely, but as usual, he never showed it. Instead, he let his son be and dropped the matter altogether. Now here he was, present day, continuing to do the same habit he's gotten accustomed to doing for six long years.
Little by little, the longer Masaomi sat there, and the longer he was in contact with his son, he felt all his pain and troubles disappear. Even though he didn't have Shiori anymore, he still had Seijuro; and that was more than enough for him at the moment. Without warning, the sheets he was sitting on began to shift and rustle, snapping the middle-aged man out of his thoughts. His immediate reaction was to try and retract his hand, but before he could move an inch, his son had already woken up, the boy's eyes clouded over with drowsiness as he looked up at the person sitting on his bed.
"Father…?" he murmured quietly, voice almost inaudible. He looked tousled and confused, not to mention way too exhausted to move. The man hesitated. So much for trying to be covert. He could leave right now, but he's already been seen. There was no point in trying to hide it anymore. As soon as his son tried to sit up, Masaomi gently pushed him back down, his hand going back up to move back and forth across those red tresses.
"It's alright. Go to sleep, Seijuro." Whatever questions his son had on the tip of his tongue immediately died, and instead he just gave a small nod before wordlessly settling back into bed, his breathing getting longer and heavier as the movement of his father's hand through his hair slowly lulled him back to sleep. Once Masaomi was sure he was asleep, he stood up from the bed and opened the door, shutting it quietly behind him before making his way back to his own bedroom.
When he got back into his room and laid down in bed, he realized that he would probably have to explain this to his son in the morning. Whatever. He didn't care anymore. As long as Seijuro would still allow him to indulge in his one habit, nothing else really mattered. He sighed as he rolled over and was finally able to close his eyes, no longer feeling distraught like he was when he woke up. He could now rest easy until morning.
As he gradually slipped into his slumber, even though Seijuro couldn't hear him, he internally thanked him for the solitary company.
Well, I hope that went well. I thank you for everyone who read this first attempt at a one-shot, tell me if it's any good because I've never done this before. I plan to make more one-shots at a later time, but I'm taking it slow for now. I'll try and be more active on my other stories, though. So do look out for me in the next few weeks. Until then, you know what to do...
Read and review please!