a/n: This is a sequel to my previous story "Kids", but it can very easily stand on its own.
Children
Hiro-san is beautiful even when he's furious, Nowaki muses, feeling the subtle upturning of his lips as he smiles idly at his seething lover. The brunette's eyes twinkle like tiny embers, mouth set in its oh-so familiar pout (or, if Nowaki is to be entirely honest with himself, it's more of a snarl, really) as his fists tremble against the unfortunate novel that is currently being crushed in his palms.
"N-Nowaki, what is this?"
His murderous tone should send tremors up and down Nowaki's spine, should raise the fine hairs on the back of his neck and sprout goose pimples beneath the clammy flesh of his arms, but he supposes he was born without that vital sense of self-preservation because he simply finds Hiro-san all the more adorable, even as he's hissing and sputtering like the agitated feline he is.
"Hiro-san," Nowaki draws out affectionately, holding "this" closely as "it" clings hopelessly to his lengthy legs.
Clearly, this object that has caught his lover's attention has the good sense to hide, even if Nowaki doesn't.
"This," he pauses, urging "this" forward as "it" struggles desperately to stay embedded in his pant leg. " is Yuka-chan."
And she's more of a kid than a "this", really. Nowaki notes that Hiro-san needs to improve his tact with children (and, again, if he is to be completely honest with himself, Hiro-san needs to improve his tact with just about everyone).
Hiro-san scowls, slamming his tattered novel onto the cluttered kitchen counter, scattering a once neatly organized pile of papers in his haste. Yuka-chan takes cover behind Nowaki's legs once more, whimpering and trembling as the assistant professor forces himself to calm down.
The cabinets rattle noisily at the force of Hiro-san's anger, and Nowaki can feel his grin broaden.
'He is just too sweet!'
"I don't care what her name is!" The brunette growls deeply. "Why is she here?"
There is then a brief moment in which realization hits him: Hiro-san has no idea why there's a child clinging to his knees. For all he knows, Nowaki may have stolen her from the streets.
He chuckles at the notion, coaxing Yuka-chan from her hiding place as Hiro-san's breathing calms and he taps his foot impatiently.
"Hiro-san," He draws out finally as Yuka-chan's tiny hand wraps around two of his outstretched fingers. "Yuka-chan is my boss's daughter. He had an urgent meeting to attend and he couldn't find a sitter, so—"
"—so naturally, you volunteered?"
Hiro-san spits venomously as Yuka-chan burrows further into Nowaki's lab coat.
"More or less." He answers blithely, unable to keep the smile from his voice. He pulls Yuka-chan from her hiding place in his coat, holding her high above the ground in the safety of his large arms.
And he imagines how it would feel to hold his own child; how fragile and tiny she might seem in his sizable grip, as the tender rhythm of her heart beats in sync with his own.
He tries to envision her eyes—surely they'd be the same dazzling light brown as Hiro-san's, her hair, light like his as well—nearly blonde, really. She would be tall, but graceful, smart but temperamental—gorgeous like Hiro-san, endearing and enchanting.
"Daddy," she would say, voice a high melody, music to his ears. "Why does momma always stay so long at the university?"
"—Stop thinking like that." Hiro-san's accusatory voice breaks through the thick fog of his musings. "And don't pretend you're not!"
The softness of his tone is a shock after all of his yelling and fussing. Yuka-chan's muscles slacken, big chocolate eyes trained on Hiro-san's face as he draws gentle, regretful fingers over the spine of his novel, which rests haphazardly atop the remaining scattered papers on the battered countertop.
Nowaki's gaze slowly trails down Hiro-san's gradually-calming figure—the taught lines in his shoulders smoothing out as the tell-tale crease between his brows disappears. His legs tremble slightly at the effort of composing himself, sock-clad toes crinkling the papers at his feet, and Nowaki's attention is instantly attracted to the lettering on the page.
In bold, black familiar characters, it reads:
"Adoption Request"
And he's reminded of all the sleepless nights spent with Hiro-san, filling out the countless legal documents required to adopt a kid; all the meaningless phone calls and interviews and tests that he's sure no regular, opposite-sex couple has to go through, but he's willing to do anything if it means that he and Hiro-san can have a child of their own.
Above the dark lettering and the thin, neat curling of Hiro-san's professional kanji, there are larger, more ominous, crimson majuscules—bled into the paper like a wound and Nowaki feels his heart clench as he rereads them for what seems like the thousandth time since Hiro-san has banished the papers to the unused corner of the counter.
In an unsightly, sickening shade of red, it reads:
"Request Denied"
And he can tell by the neatness of the words that they're been stamped on by some stuffy business man, sitting in an oversized office miles away. He wonders how many families he's rejected, how many children will grow up without parents just like he did because of this man, this council of people who decide who gets happiness and who doesn't.
He wonders how many hopeful families had aspired to adopt him all those years ago, only to be rejected; what kind of life he could have had if maybe just one family had been accepted instead.
"Request Denied"
They'd waited three weeks for that letter. Nowaki had been working late that evening and Hiro-san had barely refrained from opening it without him. The assistant professor paced restlessly about the kitchen as he'd gently pulled it open, careful not to rip the envelope as his giant fingers trembled in anticipation.
"What the Hell are you waiting for, idiot? Open it!"
And Nowaki laughed, explaining that when their daughter grew up, he wanted to cherish the letter that had started it all; to let her see just how kind some people could be.
The first thing he noticed was the heinous shade of scarlet ink they'd used—like blood, he'd realized, as over the years he'd become more and more familiar with the substance. Hiro-san had gone silent as he'd felt the beginnings of a hopeless smile whispering at the edges of his mouth, and he laughed, quietly, brokenly, as his lover pulled the paper from his shaking grasp.
"Request Denied" boomed through his skull, the ugly red letters gloating up at him as Hiro-san threw the papers on the glossy, albeit slightly damaged, counter top.
"It's okay," the assistant professor had muttered, and Nowaki, shamefully enough, had cried for the very first time since he was a child, sobbing silently into Hiro-san's arms as the brunette spoke soothingly over and over again, "We'll fight it."
It wasn't so much the audacity of the letter, or the heartlessness of it all that had gotten to him, really. It was the fact that regardless of how strong Hiro-san always seemed to be, there had been a definite hurt in his eyes. It was the same hurt that Nowaki had fallen in love with all those years ago; the raw, stifling pain that he'd hoped to erase from his lover's eyes forever.
And there it was, floating in the brunette's watery irises unabashed, and he was helpless to stop it.
"How long is she staying?" Hiro-san's voice breaks him from his revere once more. He huffs quietly, eying the child as she squirms in Nowaki's hold.
There is something odd about Hiro-san's stare- something needy and eager, and Nowaki knows he can feel it too: the debilitating urge to hold her and soothe her and make her laugh; to raise her the way normal parents raise a child—to have something, anything to show for the love between them besides their sizable, shared apartment (that's more of a library, with all of Hiro-san's books) and the cum-stained sheets that lay ruffled on the floor in their bedroom.
"Just until the evening." Nowaki drabbles, rocking Yuka-chan to and fro as she giggles and tries to touch his face with her chubby little hands. "Maybe until dark, if that's okay?"
And the brunette's face flushes as he runs a trembling hand through his sweat-tousled hair. Perspiration clings to his hairline, droplets running in thin trails down the contours of his neck. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly.
The slightest inklings of need knot in Nowaki's stomach, but he ignores them, reminding himself that Hiro-san will be more than pissed if he lets something as petty as lust get in the way of their one chance to prove to themselves, if not anyone else, that they can be suitable parents (and he's sure no matter how often he tries to prove just how irresistible Hiro-san really is, the assistant professor isn't convinced in the slightest).
Yuka-chan wriggles restlessly in his hold and he smiles down at her. Her returning grin is like that of a jack-o-lantern, wide but checkered—teeth missing here and there so he can easily see her tongue through the gaps.
Hiro-san is placing the scattered papers back in their original resting place, pausing only momentarily to contemplate their contents before turning his flustered glower back to Nowaki and their temporary daughter and questioning, shakily,
"I-is she hungry?"
Nowaki's heart flutters as Yuka-chan pulls him toward the living room couch, chancing quick glances at her school bag that rests by the doorway as she asks if she can get out her coloring book and crayons. He nods good-naturedly and she giggles as she drags the items toward the sleek coffee table that sits between them, flipping to the first empty page before scribbling over the face of a miscellaneous princess with a nubby orange.
Hiro-san is as impatient as always. Not waiting a moment longer for an answer, he begins pulling random pots and pans from the cabinets. Nowaki can feel eyes on his back as he chatters lightly with the little girl, and he can only wonder—as the sweet smells of Hiro-san's cooking fill the apartment and the assistant professor cracks a window to let the heavy air out—if the brunette is imagining what it would feel like if this were to become a routine; if every day he were to prepare dinner for his loving, hardworking husband and adoring little daughter as she ran through the details of her day as well as a little girl can—and Nowaki is completely positive that Hiro-san would kill him if he were to find out what he's thinking.
'But housewife-Hiro-san would be too adorable! He could quit his job at the university and buy a cute little apron—'
And Hiro-san's eyes burn painful holes in his shoulder blades, as if to say, "Stop thinking like that, stupid!"
The gentle crackling of the stove and Yuki-chan's sweet voice soon lull him into a light slumber. Muscles that he doesn't remember tensing slowly begin to slacken and he's instantly caught in a far fetched dream—of Hiro-san, like always, and three beautiful, light-haired children with tempers that rival their father's.
And suddenly, it's just him and Usami-san, and the silver haired man keeps talking about bears. Then, there is the young brunette that frequents the flower shop who asks if he's bought Kamijou the Devil any white roses lately and soon he's surrounded by chattering people and Hiro-san is nowhere to be found.
He tries to call to him, but his voice is drowned out by the crowd around him.
Then, there's a cry—loud and garbled over the chatter of the mob and his struggled breathing. There's sniffling and stuttering—
"Oh, I guess you're hurt, aren't you?"
The words belong to Hiro-san, and he fights to lift his heavy eyelids. 'What an odd dream...' He muses, attempting to focus on Hiro-san's bashful, hopeless tone and Yuka-chan's stifled crying, and he wonders in horror in his lover has lost his temper and—God forbid—struck the child, but he pushes the thought away.
Even Hiro-san knows better than to hit a little girl, surely.
"W-well, you should know better than to run in the house. That's why you fell." He reprimands, but his sympathetic tone betrays him. He ghosts nervous fingers over Yuka-chan's bobbing shoulders as she sobs, shielding a scuffed knee as Nowaki holds back a laugh.
'In his own way, Hiro-san would make a great mother.'
"H-hey, Nowaki," The older man speaks suddenly, causing Nowaki to jump slightly in surprise. "You're the doctor here, so stop lazing around and help her out!"
Dinner consists of Yakizakana with grated daikon. Yuka-chan makes a face, but doesn't complain and Hiro-san flushes a pretty rosy shade when Nowaki compliments its taste.
Yuka-chan tells the assistant professor which books she's reading at school, and while it's obvious to Nowaki that he would have surely overlooked a book titled Majo no Takkubin for something more advanced (such as his beloved, Heike Monogatari , which he has told Nowaki time and time again that he's cherished since grade school), he seems to appreciate their shared love of reading and Nowaki feels that, in that very moment, their temporary family is complete.
And the hours seem to slip through their fingers, until the sky is dyed black and Yuka-chan's father knocks firmly on the front door of their apartment, exchanging casualties with Nowaki as Hiro-san hangs back in the kitchen out of sight and Yuka-chan leaps into her daddy's waiting arms.
Her tiny feet tap a light beat against the metal staircase as she and her father make their way toward his car and Hiro-san peers moodily out the window after them, loss swimming in his eyes.
He rests one palm on the foggy glass of the window, watching with hard eyes as their vehicle trudges through the crowded city streets and Nowaki sighs, placing a sizable hand atop Hiro-san's as the assistant professor lets out a shaky breath, leaning into his lover's touch.
"We really should have a child of our own—a little girl, don't you think? She would grow up with my height and your love for literature… You could teach her to appreciate Matsuo Basho; I could teach her to launch toy rockets…"
His words are a soft hum in Hiro-san's ear, breath hot against his neck.
"You're a doctor, dumbass." The assistant professor scoffs, mouth set in its customary grimace as the younger man pulls him into an easy embrace.
Nowaki has always been so warm, but somehow, even in the smothering heat of the Indian summer they're stuck in, there is nothing unpleasant about his touch.
On the contrary, Hiro-san wishes he would hold him even tighter.
"S-so, "He continues, "You should know that it's not possible for two men to have a child."
Nowaki's returning smirk is devious, black irises alight with mischief as he runs heated fingers over the flesh of Hiro-san's equally heated (if not more so) shoulders and arms.
"I wouldn't mind trying though." He replies, chuckling as the growing bulge in his pants pokes incessantly into Hiro-san's lower back. "We can try as many times as it takes."
And Hiro-san knows he should hit him for saying such blatantly perverted things, but somehow, he just doesn't have it in him.
Maybe it's the warmth of his arms around him, or the gentle tittering of his heart, but Hiro-san doesn't want to ruin the moment.
Even if it means feigning ignorance when Nowaki's fingers brush against his backside one too many times.
fin
I promised sakura-kisses-36 that I'd have this story posted back in February, but with college entrance exams, applying for student loans, and trying desperately to find a job, I've been too busy to get any writing done. So, I'm very sorry! I tried my hardest to get it posted as soon as possible!
This wasn't intended to be particularly political, but as I do with the majority of my stories, I conducted a bit of research on adoption and gay marriage laws in Japan, and gay marriage is currently still outlawed, so for the sake of being realistic, this became rather "angsty"... But, you know, you'd think Japan would be a little more open minded about gay rights with such a young age of consent, but I guess we all move at our pace~
Notes: Yakizakana is a common dinner dish in Japan. It's a flame-grilled fish that's commonly served with grated daikon (white radish—think of the Romantica scene in which Misaki's like, "Bath, rest, or… me?" The big white plant thing he was holding was a daikon).
Majo no Takkubin is one of the most beloved of Japanese children's stories. The American title is "Kiki's Delivery Service". I'm sure you've heard of it~
Heike Monogatari, or 'The Tale of the Heike' is a famous account of the 12th century power struggle between the Taira and Minamoto clans.
Matsuo Basho is the most famous poet in the Japanese Edo period.
Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a review and let me know what you thought!