Author's Note: Happy Birthday Sobdasha!
Fatherhood had its painful bits, too.
"You must always remember to dodge, Shura."
"Mm."
For example, as Yomi was learning, children had an irritating propensity towards not listening, and very short attention spans.
"And never stop looking an enemy in the eye. It will tell you where he's going to attack next."
"Mmhm."
"And, more important than that—Shura, please stop picking wildflowers for a moment."
"They're for Mama!"
As always, upon hearing that nickname he'd coaxed and coached Shura to form into a habit, Yomi smiled. It would have been sinister, had anyone but Shura been around. To Shura himself it was just one of Father's funnier faces—he always seemed pleased when Shura referred to Yomi's second-in-command as Mama. Said second-in-command looked frighteningly irritated when Shura used it, but his father smiled, and that was enough for Shura.
"For Ma—Kurama?"
Yomi watched his son, so small and yet already such a capable fighter, break out in a blush. Yomi skimmed through his knowledge of his own childhood, a sparse and painful thing, for information on boyhood crushes. Shura did mature faster than the average demon child, but Yomi, with so little knowledge base to fall back on, couldn't decide whether infatuations were normal. He decided they were.
"And as for—"
"I don't want to practice fighting right now—at least, not just talking about it. Let's go back."
Catching his son's eagerness, Yomi frowned, striking down the indulgence that was welling up from an unknown source in his breast. "We will sit here until you learn patience, Shura. Enter your meditation pose."
So they sat.
And sat, Shura's legs shaking with his attempt to remain perfectly still.
And sat, until Shura was quite disgruntled under his father's unmoving face.
And sat some more, until Shura was fidgeting almost constantly, a heavy scowl marring his youthful features.
And sat, Shura shooting poisonous glares at his father and writing loopy symbols in the dirt, having given up all pretenses of effort.
Yomi gave out first, with a low, exasperated sigh, rising from his position as though he hadn't been sitting like a stone for the last few minutes. "We will return to the castle now."
"Did I do well?" Shura asked enthusiastically, bouncing on his heels as he stood quickly, shifting in the tall grasses of the clearing Yomi had chosen to train in.
"You were impatient and you did not listen. Those two mistakes could easily cost you your life." Feeling his son's affect fall in a wistful droop, and unable to see it, Yomi cursed himself as he began to soften. He swallowed the false compliment, knowing that teaching his son such weakness could get the boy killed.
He deliberately ignored the ache that rose in his chest at the thought of it, and led Shura by a parental hand on the back of his head towards the city, Shura ignoring the constant lightning storms to shake off his father's embarrassing touch and bend down to pluck more of the flowers that could, despite the lack of sun, be found all over the outskirts surrounding the city, and even lately within the compounds themselves. Yomi couldn't understand his choices, none of them fanged, acid-blooded or bethorned, until he recognized a few of the scents in Shura's bouquet. He'd picked them for beauty, and not for danger or use, and Yomi frowned.
It was an adjustment for the vicious king, but perhaps not a hard one. He led the boy away, exasperated; guiltily realizing that if Shura wanted it, he'd take him out again tomorrow.