Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own.
In the middle of the floor, in front of the small table laden with tea, Yoichi kneels.
He places his hands on the floor. He lowers his head until his dyed hair brushes the floor.
Kobayakawa Sena's parents are completely still.
"Please give me your son," Yoichi says to the floor. The words are stilted, awkward, and stick in his throat. He resists the urge to spit them out. "I will spend the rest of my life taking care of him. I can have no higher ambition than this."
He looks straight at the floor, his correctly positioned hands. He doesn't need to see to know how Sena is looking at him—the expression on his face.
Yoichi is not going to get a boner in front of Sena's parents. This is humiliating enough.
Upstairs, the fucking cat won't stop yowling.
No one says anything. Fuck, Yoichi thinks. It's not working. Sena's parents are about to throw him out on his ass, on his stupid fucking face, they're about to call the fucking cops because this fucking pervert has been molesting their barely legal under prefecture law baby for three goddamn years, he's going to get thrown into jail and by the time he gets out on a criminal law technicality Sena's going to have run off to Hong Kong with that Yamato fucker or the goddamn stalker, Shin Seijuro, and then Yoichi is going to have to bribe and put the pressure on a shit fucking ton of people just to get the cheating brat back and drag his two-timing ass home, unless it's Kongo he's run off with in which case Yoichi doesn't have to worry about anything anymore except how to dispose of his stock portfolio and corporate assets because it's going to be a clearcut case of murder-suicide—
In front of him, someone moves, raising a hand or turning a head, maybe, and suddenly all the tension is gone.
"Yoichi," a woman's voice says—low, moved, trembling with tears. "Don't you—you don't think—you don't think it would be too difficult for—"
His head still bowed, Yoichi feels the corners of his mouth lift.
"No," he says.
