Disclaimer: I of course do not own X; CLAMP does. If I owned it, I would make Nataku male though. For obvious reasons.
Author's Notes: This is a poor attempt at my second fic. Hey, I don't think I even proofread it very carefully. But whatever, enjoy... XD;; This is about Nataku btw, if for some insane reason you can't figure out who "it" or "the child" is.
Otousama
Written by wiredGIRL, July 6, 2003
I stare up at the thing that hovers in the green liquid. Wires and cables are connected to it.
It seems to scream.
What reason does it have to scream?
There is no such thing as a reason to scream.
It does scream.
. . .
It does not matter why it screams.
I take it with me.
It seems to want to go with me.
It seemed to want to go with me when I first took it.
You are different, outside.
. . .
Out here in the sunlight, away from the computers and monitors and green glow, it shines.
The last time I was out here with you, it was night.
Moonlight hardly casts enough light to make you shine, only glimmer.
I'll take you where you want to go.
Being in the tubes with the green liquid... I remember it.
. . .
We finally reach our destination.
It's dark.
And cold.
You will be in the hands of something important.
What is something important?
. . .
The young piece of flesh carries the sword down the long corridor. Something wells up inside it—the something makes its artificial stomach churn. Its artificial heart flutters.
It does not understand such things of course. The child only believes it to be a malfunction of its organs.
When it finally reaches a cold door, it places the free hand on the elaborate, cold, brass handle.
It turns the knob. Slowly.
With a heave, the child pulls the door open. Cold air blows its hair and ripples its clothes, but the same air seems to suck the emotionless thing inside.
At the other end of a another long room, but this one not so long, sits a black marble desk. The walls, floor, and ceiling are also marble.
No wonder it's so cold.
The child now passes the cold, black floor to the desk. As it nears it, the child can make out several distinctions:
In the impossibly large, icy-looking chair sits a young man, blonde, limp. Next to him stand a young woman and an older man. The female has ebony hair save for a shock of what seems to have been bleached blonde in the front. The man has on a suit and over it a lab coat, with a curious smile on his face.
In front of the desk stands a professional-looking person, with a serious, yet mocking face, and a tag hanging around her neck stating her occupation in the building. She barely opens her mouth to speak a welcome to the young thing that has entered the room, and she stands up a little straighter as if to stroll over to the child, but in the end, makes no move.
There is one more person in the room.
A tall figure boldly walks forward. He has a simple hairstyle and a simple black Japanese school uniform. His tall, broad-shouldered frame pushes the air aside as he walks, and everything is silent around him. His own footsteps seem to tremble out of fear of disturbing this young boy. Suddenly his face is made clear to the child.
This boy is….
. . .
Otousama.
. . .
The child's eyes widen at the taller boy's face. It can't take its gaze away. Memories it knew it did not flood its mind.
The something that made its stomach churn (why can I feel this?) and its heart flutter (what is a heart?) makes itself known again.
The Kamui walks up to the child, taking his time. When he reaches it, a smile on which words cannot be placed lifts the corners of his lips.
His strong hand brushes the child's own aside, and takes the sword, lifting it. The boy sizes up the glittering weapon.
He seems pleased.
Something triggers inside the child.
He wants it.
He wants what I brought for him.
I feel—
No, it does not feel anything. As the chairman of Toujou had told him so many times, the child has no feelings. No emotion. No heart. No soul.
It stared at the Kamui, its unrelenting gaze amusing the boy in such a subtle, odd way.
The Kamui, in turn, stared back. Their eyes held each other for a long time.
The Kamui gave a different kind of smile. Of course, the child did not understand the concept of smiling, but for some reason, it seemed good.
What was 'good,' anyway?
Whatever this strange 'good' was, it did not matter. The smile on the young man's face cued something to flash in the child's mind. It stepped forward to where the boy sat in the chair. It seemed a throne when it was he sitting in it and not the limp blonde man. The child dropped to its knees in front of him.
"Otousama," it whispered, then failed to continue.
"Kazuki." The Kamui replied. He laid an amused hand on the child's head. It had already been determined to call the child by that name—it was its wish to be called by that name, and whenever the name was spoken, such an interesting and perplexed expression crossed its face.
The child only stared into the space that was the floor, unable to speak.
"Kazuki?" the voice repeated, with a hint of mocking worry about it.
The false concern cued another image to cross through the child's mind.
"Otousama," the child named 'Kazuki' started, "why did you...look like that?"
"Hmm?" was the response, the boy holding back any indication of the entertainment that such a question provided, "like what?"
The child struggled to make its face the same as the one if its father in the flashback. The child failed, and looked troubled back up at the man who looked so much like its father.
The Kamui hid a smile behind his eyes as he changed his facial expression into one of sadness. A face of a parent that cries out as his only beloved child dies. A face of a parent who swears to bring the child back at any cost.
Said child's eyes widen. It nods, unable to take its eyes from the pained face of his 'father.' A grip it held on the knee of the boy's pants tightened slightly.
The Kamui released his heartbroken face, and chuckled lightly.
Although the child did not understand it, it did feel wrong, deep inside. But it did not matter; the child was with its father.
And the child knew that the father...
No, he didn't know that the father loved it. If it had understood emotions at all in that point of its life, it would also realize that it was not love. But it still would have puzzled the child.
The Kamui would not bother the child with anything unwanted—he only wants the child to do what he orders, like perhaps destroying the Toujou building tomorrow evening. Taking advantage of the child's weaknesses and lost memories is what the Kamui does best. It is the only thing that interests him about the child.
Although the Kamui's build fills the large chair majestically, he manages to slide over in it to make room for the child. Unsure, the child sits on the edge of the marble surface.
A hand rests on the child's head, and it stares at the floor through its feet.
Yes, the Kamui is very amused indeed.
'Kazuki' does not understand it, though.