Here is another oneshot about the Echizens. I love writing about their family dynamic.
(I love Family stories in general.)
MIRACLES
~ kittykittyhunter ~
When his eyes opened, his first thought was for his son.
Rinko was asleep, the duvet drawn around her head. Gently, Nanjiroh shifted the cover a few inches; he did not want his beautiful wife to overheat. He considered his words. Beautiful wife. It occurred to him that, perhaps, he did not compliment Rinko enough. She still had every feature that had initially stirred his heart: dark hair, bright eyes – and a nose that lifted into the air whenever she thought her husband was proposing something ridiculous.
As for the boy…
Of course, Nanjiroh had seen children before. They were noisy, messy things, drooling as their mothers pushed prams through parks and trolleys through supermarkets, shrieking as their fathers stood in toy stores, trying to pick out rattles or bears. Ryoma, six months of age, was no exception. The only thing that guaranteed to quieten him was a warm bath.
Yet, Nanjiroh marvelled at the boy's size. Those tiny feet! Those miniature hands! He lifted his child from the wooden cot making low, shushing noises. Though Ryoma's nose was clear (confirmed by a quick check), he gave little snores. At first, the sound had kept Nanjiroh awake. After a few weeks, he realised that the snuffles were a disguised blessing. He could rest in the darkness, knowing that a few feet away, his son continued to breathe.
Holding the bundle in his arms, he went downstairs. He crossed the house and opened the back door, letting the scents of summer waft in. Leaves and flowers were slick with dew. The whole world was shimmering. Glittering.
One day, Ryoma would be strong enough to waddle around the garden. He would stumble, fall over. He would collect twigs and pebbles. He would kneel on the ground, exclaiming every time he saw an ant or snail or ladybird.
And, when he was older, those small fingers would be strong enough to grip a tennis racquet.
Nanjiroh's eyes filled with an image of a glorious future, and he held up his son, kissing the boy's soft face; he inhaled the mix of detergent, infant smell and Rinko's perfume – and oh, babies were perfect, absolutely perfect, and he would cherish every second of watching his own child grow.