Warning: parental neglect/abuse, past death.
There's a lot of noise in the next room. There's a lot of everything in the next room.
Tohma doesn't pretend he understands half of it. He doesn't even pretend that he wants to be here. Ater all, Mama isn't here. Papa was here but mama was not here.
"Father hates being called that," he reminds himself. He reminds himself quickly because the words don't fit here. None of his casual speech, the fun world full of normal words, fits here. Here are things more expensive than his house with mama in every room and even this scratchy suit was pricey too.
Tohma sniffles and thinks of the voices. He's not that interested. He wants to go home. He wants to go home and stay in his soft futon with Mama and get little trinkets from his father.
"Mother, please just talk to him!"
Father's voice. Father's distant voice almost sounds like it can be touched now. Almost like he could hold it in his hands. He doesn't want to try. He's been disappointed before. But he can envision it.
"There is no need to speak to him. You did not need to bring him here."
"He is my son!"
They're talking about him. Father is yelling about him. Father cares about him, cares for him.
(He thinks, he hopes.)
"And he is nothing that cannot be replaced."
"Mother."
Grandmother is calm and measured, sure in whatever she is saying to him. Tohma's German is weak and halting, impressed upon him by his father more and more with each subsequent meeting until now when he forces his mouth into ungainly complete sentences that sounded terrible to his own inexperienced understanding. He can only guess what was being said beyond this and what little he can hear sounds like it's meant to be an insult. Or if not an insult, something cold and mean.
His mother was not someone he could crash into and defeat with fists. He'd likely never be able to do so with words.
Despite himself, he's curious. Tohma knows the words are bad and cruel but honest. They sound as though they mean whatever it is they are saying. So he's curious. What is so bad about him?
He wonders if Grandmother sounded like this when his father was small.
He wanders to the door, eases it open as quietly as he can. It's better than sitting in his chair.
Grandmother gets more expressions than Tohma does, the little boy realizes immediately. Even though he's not looking at him, his father gestures and emphasizes. His long bones are good for it, good for acknowledging and admiration. Jealousy pools in Tohma's eyes and gut and he struggles not to see green.
She's listening, he's sure. Listening and nodding along. It doesn't seem like an agreeing nod, more of a 'go on and let it out' nod, like Mama – Mother – had taught him about when he used the phone.
Then her eyes rest on him.
Tohma stiffens but doesn't move away. He refuses to run, refuses to bend because mama would want him to be brave. She would want him to be brave and strong and not yield to anyone, not even people who call him names and make him feel like he should be crying. Instead, he stares back, waits for whatever is coming next. Maybe she'll tell him to leave.
Well, he, he won't leave! Where would he go anyway?
It takes his father a moment, but she looks at him long enough that his papa has to. His father has always been open with his emotions. He's never been cold. It's why the few times he's seen photos of them together, Tohma, perhaps all too innocently, has believed they were friends at least, clear friends even if not in love.
His father clears his throat. "T-Tohma! Why are you eavesdropping, come greet your grandmother."
Tohma still doesn't want to and he doubts it's not obvious to his father. He does it anyway, staring up at them both and feeling his eyes start to water. "It is a pleasure to meet you, grandmother." The last word, curse his tongue, his nervousness, his everything, came out in Japanese. He didn't see the woman wrinkle her nose, but he didn't doubt she had. She didn't seem to like his language, his anything.
As he thought, at that moment, of truly wishing to sink into the floor, Tohma doesn't exactly blame her.
She looks at him. Something in her eyes changes but he has no idea if it's good. Her fingers grip his chin, cold and withered. She waits for him. He tries hard not to flinch.
He watches her face turned to steel and cold as she looks him up and down. Then, she comes to whatever it is she's going to say. It's all over her face.
"He has her eyes."
Tohma feels her let go and swallows. It's not a compliment. He knows it isn't. She's still looking at him though, which is more than he can say his father will do.
Perhaps Father is ashamed of him.
"You are a Norstein," his grandmother says, steel and ash. "And yet you are not. You must do well to remember that, for there is nothing you can do about it. You may only exist with it and carry it with the pride you do not deserve and eventually, hopelessly, try to become worthy of it."
Tohma blinks at her, looks at her with a mix of awe and shame. Like he truly has something to be ashamed of. He should be at fault for something. He should be guilty. Tears well up in the backs of his eyes.
He looks, desperately to his father. His father does not look back.
He never does.
He grows used to it, to the creaking halls to the silence.
The servants speak to him, of course, but it's not conversation. It's just yes words. Even his mother said no to him.
Thinking of her makes his eyes water and Tohma rubs them furiously. He's not going to cry though. He won't cry again. Not after that day in the courtyard. No one came for him, they all left him there to cry. They wouldn't care if he did then, they might even find enjoyment in it. Tohma only thought that when it was dark and there was laughter in the halls but he still thought it and hated himself.
So he wouldn't cry. He'd become tough and cold, what his grandmother said he couldn't. He'd become strong and unflappable like his father wasn't. And when he had kids, because his grandmother had decided he'd have to (he's six that's weird!), he would remember all of this. They would never be treated like this, ever.
He smiles to himself under the soft blankets, his first smile in weeks.
As Tohma sleeps that night, something slips under his dresser, a single blue and white egg that wobbles until it goes peacefully still.
He would be woken up that morning, not by a servant's hand and the smell of tea but a very loud crack. None of his worries would really matter after that.
A/N: I've been sitting on this thought for a while. I hardly ever write a canon scene this close but I have always thought about this one, thought hard about it. So I thought, why not remake it and add to it a little? So here it is. Please let me know what you think!
Challenges: Minific Masterclass, prompt 1, Short Oneshot Competition, Mega Prompts Quotee Prompts. 245