A glimpse into Akito's childhood and his love for his father Akira. Who accidentally laid the ground work for Akito's possessive nature when constantly reinforcing the idea that Akito is 'a child to be loved.'
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"Here, Akito, I have a gift for you."
The small child looked up from his seat on the engawa. His father stood over him, a closed fist held out in offering. He crouched down and knelt next to the boy, who reached out expectantly, his tiny hands cupped together. Akira pressed his fist into those small hands, uncurled his fingers and drew his hand back.
Akito stared at the gift, then looked questioningly to his father.
"Bird seed?"
His voice was high and light, like white summer clouds, tinged grey with confusion.
His father nodded and took some back to his hand. He threw it into the garden in a smooth gesture, scattering seed among the decorative plants. Scores of birds flocked to the spot, pecking at the ground and scratching for the morsels.
"Hold very still."
Akira settled down comfortably next to his child and took some more seed into his hand. Then he leaned over, stretching away from the pair and deposited a little pile of the seed on the engawa, making a trail back to his open hand, still partially filled with seed. Sitting back up, he motioned for Akito to watch.
A small sparrow hopped up next to the seed and ate warily, not entirely trusting the two who fed it.
Akito was entranced by the small creature. He could hear its tiny taloned feet scratching the wood. He could see how the feathers blended together to form a cohesive pattern. It was beautiful and prefect and fragile.
Moving very slowly, cautiously, the sparrow followed the seed trail right up to Akira's hand, where it hesitated.
Akito held his breath unknowingly, unable to tear his gaze away from the bird.
Suddenly, it jumped onto his father's hand and began to eat.
"This is how you teach them." Akira's whispered voice, like the rustling of bamboo leaves, was barely audible. "They are wonderful listeners. If you continue to feed them, soon they will come simply at the sight of you."
He turned his soft smile towards the upturned hopeful face.
"Even the birds will love you, Akito. You were born to be loved."
-
Akito leaned back against the warmth of his father, content to sit there forever. Akira was writing, an ink brush held lightly in one hand while the other absentmindedly stroked Akito's hair. Akito watched the brush travel up and down the page, leaving a spindly trail of black lines behind.
This was their special room. Only Akira and he were allowed in this room. It looked sort of like a storage room just for books and scrolls, but no one else knew what was in this room and it was just his and his father's. So it was their special room.
"Father?" A soft sound.
Akira stopped and out down the brush, turning his attention to the small bundle in his lap.
"What is it, Akito?"
A small hand reached up and entwined itself in his hair, twirling silvery strands around little fingers.
"Why is your hair silver?"
Akira smiled gently.
"Because I am the Head of the House."
Akito frowned at this. He sat up a tad, examining the shining tendrils closely. Then he looked at his own.
"Will my hair change, then?"
A smooth laugh, low and musical, which broke off into a short fit of coughing; Akira held a heavy haori sleeve over his mouth. Akito waited politely before continuing.
"When I am the Head of the House, will my hair become silver?"
Akira ruffled his child's hair with a smile.
"No, Akito, your hair is black."
"But why?"
"Your mother's hair is black."
"So? I want pretty silver hair like yours."
"If things had been different, then you would've had silver hair, probably." Akira smiled down at his child, benevolence and love held in his kind eyes, with a touch of sadness lingering around the corners.
"Different?"
"I love you just how you are, Akito. Just how you are." Akira hugged the slight child, wrapping him up in silk and love. Akito settled into the embrace, wishing he could bury himself in the unique scent that was his father. He was too naïve to notice how frail his father's embrace felt, how thin his limbs were, how that unique scent seemed to be of sickness and fading.
-
Akito pulled himself to his feet, clinging to the engawa post tightly. He balanced shakily, locking his knees in hopes that it would help him stand. Cautiously, he released his hold on the post. He remained standing. He tried an unsteady step forward; his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the porch. Darn it!
He was nearly seven years old; he should be able to do this by now! Akito knew why he couldn't. Illness had kept him to his bed too much; his legs were weak. He still was carried everywhere, usually by Kureno. But he was tired of it. He wanted to be able to get around on his own! Enough of this babying.
Akito practiced for the rest of the afternoon until he was too exhausted to move. But he was happy. He could walk, teetering and uncertain, between one post to the next. He couldn't wait to show his father, who had been the most supportive of Akito's attempts. Tomorrow, he thought smugly, he'd show his father his achievement. He could just imagine the glow of pride that would light up his eyes.
But it wasn't to be. The day Akito was finally able to walk was the eve of Akira's thirty-first birthday. He passed away quietly that night.
Akito became ill. Violently ill. It chained him to his bed, sweeping him up in a world of delirious fevers, vomiting, dizziness, and torturous consciousness that left him wishing for a sleep that barely came, and never for long enough. It reduced him to a rambling, disorientated mess as he frightened maids with his wild talk of a beautiful man with long silver hair and flowing kimono who visited him but said nothing. He had never been so sick in his life, and he would never be as sick again.
During that time, all he wanted was his father to hold him, but he never came. Once he began recovering, he was giving the shattering news. No one in the Inner House could help but cringe in pity as the child's heart-wrenching sobs passed easily through the paper walls.
Akito laid quietly in the darkness of his room that night, tears spent. The rain pattering against the roof was a testament to his grief. He clutched his father's haori closely to his small body as if this last remnant of him would vanish if he relinquished his grip. Bundled in the soft silk was the ornate Chinese box that his father left specifically to him. His mother, Ren, had already tried to take it from him. He wouldn't let her take it, or the Juunishi.
He breathed in his father's scent deeply, tearing springing up quickly. He wanted to see him. He had to see him.
Slowly, carefully, he slid out of his bed, his legs telling him immediately that this was a bad idea. But he would not be turned aside. Leaning heavily against the wooden wall, he gradually made his way into the hall. Now all the walls were paper. He'd go right through them. He would have to walk, unsupported, from post to post.
It was tedious, exhausting work. Each time the distance between the posts seemed to grow, and each time he was certain that he made enough noise to wake up everyone. But it didn't happen.
Finally he reached the garden at the back of the house. Akito was barely standing and his breath came in the long shallow gasps of someone still sickly. But he was so close. He couldn't think, he just focused on walking. One step, one step, one step. He blinked the rain out of his eyes. A little farther. His footfalls made splashes in the puddles. One step, one step.
He tripped, falling to the ground. He spat mud out of his mouth and tried to get up. He couldn't. Despair washed over him. No! He was almost there.
"Chichiue," he started sobbing. He clenched his teeth and struggled to his kness. He'd make it. He crawled, dragging himself through the mud and puddles, stones cutting into his knees and palms. He just pushed forward numbly, no longer truly aware of his actions. He just had to go forward.
-
A maid found Akito the next morning, unconscious, torn and dirty, on his father's grave. He was rushed to the emergency room, where he stayed for two weeks, recovering from pneumonia. Kureno, Shigure, Hatori, and Ayame all dutifully came to visit him. Kureno brought Akito his father's haori and ornate box, and the trio brought laughter tempered with calmness. For a time, Akito felt a little happy, hopeful even.
Then he found out that he would continue getting sick, for the remainder of his unnaturally short life.
He didn't want this. The cursed blessing of godhood, and no one cared to ask his opinion.
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Before you ask:
I know that Akito could walk just fine as a child (see volume 15, chapter 84 of Furuba), but I doubt he could walk for long periods of time. You know, because he was sick so often? Eh, makes sense to me. Also, I have this idea that all the Heads of the House are buried in a private graveyard deep within the Inside, so no, Akito didn't go wandering the streets. (He wouldn't have made it off the Sohma estate.)
But yeah, he wasn't always so bitter and mean. He was a sweet child who got his future handed to him on a silver platter, no choices needed, it was already decided. He lost his father, only person who loved him for who he was and not what he was, at a young age, and his mom was a bitch that helped drive him down a path of darkness and hopelessness. Sometimes, you get short-changed in childhood.
Thoughts? Review and let me know.