Chapter 03 The Evil-Eye Quirk

Mama came back with another man last night, long after Shota's evening vocal lessons. A different man from the night before, from before-before, and a long time ago. Definitely not Daddy. He wasn't gentle-looking, or gentle-spoken, or anything at all like Daddy or Granddad. Shota concluded that this contrast sufficed as a strong dislike. Maybe even hate, but he didn't know why. He just disliked him: his growling face, his starchy breath that followed Mama, his too-big hands, his stupid cane that supported his bloated body. But he could wobble fast and he clutched onto people and things with a white knuckle. All Shota knew was that there was no logic that could explain how this stocky man would make Mama's life any better.

"What's your name, shorty?" the man asked, staring down at the half-scowling, half-trembling child.

Without intention, Shota's eyes burst with red laser-like light that emitted from his pupils. Stinging hairs and thudding pressure carved into his sockets and caused irritant tears to blur his vision. The immense watery pain that came with meant nothing to the disdain he had for this man.

He heard Mama reprimand, "Shota, knock off the eyes," but he didn't care. She groaned and insisted on consoling the man beside her, the man who inspected Shota with something just short of interest.

"Fiery," the man said, as if this all was a joke. He limped back to Mama and whispered something to her that made her laugh. Shota read his lips: evil eye.

Shota's face reddened and before he knew it, his Quirk shut down. The itching of his eyes made him scrub at the water running down his face. No one liked when he cried—crying meant more trouble. He wasn't even sad, but no one asked. They just acted. He turned away—

"Baby boy, where're you headed?" Mama asked.

Shota rolled his eyes, a new habit. "D-don't know." Mama didn't really care. She asked the same questions or questions like it, punctuated with a soft baby boy, whenever grown-up men were over. "Away."

"Turn around when I'm talking to you." Annoyed that Mama only called him her baby boy again for the sake of a grand show, to impress this stupid stranger, Shota did as told. Mama bent down—she used to do that a lot… used to—and looked directly at him, eyes alert for once. "Don't you want to talk to Mama's boyfriend?" The man walked off to the kitchen to steal a bottle of the sauce. Shota watched him.

"Wh-wh—… Boyfriend?"

"He might become your new daddy." Mama smiled brighter than she ever did with Daddy. Real Daddy. "He said he likes you."

Shota frowned at her. "I don't care."

Mama smacked the side of his thigh, deaf to the short yelp that followed. She frowned back, snatching his wrist in case he tried to run. "You better be nice," she warned in a low voice. "Don't be selfish."

Shota's eyes began to water again, but he didn't want to cry here. In front of Mama and her stupid boyfriend. He wanted to run, as his mother predicted.

"Just go to your room," Mama ordered. She let go of his wrist and walked back to the kitchen. "I don't want to see you till dinner." Her boyfriend watched him leave, and Shota shivered at this newfound dislike of having eyes on the back of his head.

Shota's room still smelled like his sister. It was probably her old clothes, her bed. Chi loved clothes so much that she changed styles each year. Her last trend was glittery shoes—she always called them "princess shoes"—and tight jeans. Her old raincoats that matched the yellow one Shota had hung at the farthest part of the closet, worn once and forgotten that same night.

His throat felt weird. Tired. Mama made him go to vocal lessons at least twice a week, but she herself trained him almost nightly. She screamed in excitement when he succeeded, and downed an entire bottle of gin when he failed. He wasn't even sure why Mama was making him do this; and truthfully, he never thought to ask much about it. All there was inside him was relief that he had not been forgotten. As long as he made this type of noise, Mama would be drawn to him.

That was enough.

It was annoying most of the time to have this other chore, but it was enough for him. He ached to make her proud. But every time he put-up-and-shut-up, a fragment of him cried out. Least it cried out of him, though, and not her. Mama cried enough these days. She didn't need any more tears.

He crawled into bed and stuffed himself far under the covers, clinging to his hippo toy under the warmth of the blanket in this now-frigid house. He missed his grandparents even more these days. Though, it was just as Mama had said: don't be selfish.

He knew how to do that. Only problem was it hurt him—not like a slap or a yell, but it hurt him. It hurt silently. It hurt in the dark, in the light, when he frowned, when he smiled. It made everything just hurt.

Her boyfriend—his name was complicated: Tsubasa—came over more often as the days went on. He spent too much time over that Mama forgot all about Shota. He wanted to be near her as much as she'd wanted to push him back into his room. So, he hid there with Maisie, sitting on his bed next to the window. Books became his best friend. Books and Maisie. He talked to Maisie all the time about everything. He could tell her how angry and sad he was, and she would never get mad at him for stuttering. He confessed that he wanted to run away from stupid Mama and that she wouldn't notice, anyway. He hated her and her fat boyfriend. Luckily, Maisie was good at secrets. She would simply lay flat in his lap and stroke her tail on his arm to comfort him when he cried. She meowed at him when he ranted too long with too much bitterness than any five-year-old should spit. And he listened to her, even blushing when she cut off his angry words. He read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone to her, though he battled through his stutter as much as he did the words. But each day, he got a little better in their private book club. Maisie always made him better.

One day, he woke to a silent house. Mama's bed was never made, but this time, she wasn't anywhere to be found. Not the kitchen or the office or even the sauce stash in one of the cabinets. Shota called her phone on the landline, but it hardly rang. So, he went on his way. He cooked eggs and rice, followed the instructions on an instant miso packet for a crappy watered down version of soup. Mama rarely came around during the day when she was gone like this, so he took a Coke with his bland breakfast. He made a mess in the kitchen opening Maisie's canned breakfast and had to scoop the remnants of tuna slush into her bowl. They ate and watched TV together before it was time for school. The sun was still waking up alongside them, yellow rimming the trees and making the grass look sharp and sparkly at the same time.

It was freezing out, so Shota remembered his scarf. He hugged Maisie goodbye and went on his way.

School dragged on without much of anything. If one could ever be lonely enough to actually miss the bullies, he was a prime example. It was better than the quiet stares and whispering. It was better than the teachers speaking to him as if he were about to bite their heads off. It was better than knowing that their fear was the only thing grounding him to existence. He was invisible at home, and now that invisibility haunted him at school. He missed Maisie. He missed Daddy. And he missed Chi.

He asked Mama after school: "Where's Chi?" Mama pretended not to hear him, fidgeting with the pots and pans in an attempt to cook dinner. Special occasion—her boyfriend was coming over. It was her reason for anything these days, so Shota kept trying to force himself to like Tsubasa. He tried talking to the man, but it always became awkward and scary at the worst times. But right now, he had to be heard, "Mama, where's Chi? She's not…" dead, too, is she?

Mama groaned, rubbing her eyes. When she looked at Shota, he saw that the days-worth of tears had sagged her lids to half-mast. "Your sister has a new family. She's gone, too. I don't know where, but," Mama trailed off for a second. Anger flashed in her eyes when she raced to the fridge. "Look, she's just gone. Now, leave me alone."

Shota… obeyed. He locked himself in his room with Maisie, taking a can of her food with him so that at least she wouldn't be hungry tonight. In his small room, he climbed into his sister's bed and snuggled himself deep under the covers. The peach-scented shampoo she used was still there. The same smell that comforted him whenever their parents would scold him. The same smell that greeted him every time he ran into her arms. He dreamed a memory that night, but only for a bit.

Chi used to wrestle him, tickling and pinning him to the floor, forcing him to admit that she was stronger, smarter, better than him or anyone else in the universe. Stupid things even he—a toddler, then—had known to be impossible to truly measure. But he had admitted it every time—not a cry for mercy, but because he truly believed it. He'd tell her how much she meant to him, how much he loved her… Sentimental things like that that made him cry. Then, she'd sneak two handfuls of cookies that Grandmum and Mama had baked together and eat them with Shota in a low-table-and-couch fort of blankets in front of the TV. Every single time, they would fall asleep there clinging to each other. As if he'd known all along that she'd one day be gone.

When Shota woke, he was alone under her bedsheets with a growling stomach and a wet, swollen face. He snuck out of his room, peeking to find Mama staring at the TV in the dark. She was watching the news with her head tilted back just a bit in exhaustion. Blue light flashed the dim room, murmuring anchors talking too fast. He easily made it to the kitchen and made dinner out of a granola bar. Checking on her one more time, he decided to eat with Maisie in the room and fetched the cat's bowl.

He'd thought he could be Mama's hero. But did she even want him?

Heroes were all over the news. But what happened if no one wanted them around? What use were they then? They were like parents in that way. Everyone talked about them, praised them, defended their dignity to all hell. But when you needed them, sometimes, the most memorable times… where were they? They only stuck around when there was glory to be passed around.

A cooling splash on the back of his palm startled him. Shota stared at it, how it shone in the dim hallway light that peeked through the crack of the door. Maisie hopped into his lap and curled up there. Slick blue eyes centered on him in that knowing way Granddad did whenever Shota tried to get out of trouble. Shota sniffled and scrubbed his face with his shirt. "Maisie," he said. "D—… D'you ever feel like you're getting meaner and meaner every day?"

The cat stared at him, her ears perked at full attention. In fair timing, she purred and wrapped her tail around his arm.

"I do." He frowned at the door. "I can't stop being mad, and then I get sad. I try to be nice to everyone—I am—but my mind is always so mean about people."

Maisie meowed at him. She stared him down until he looked away.

"Nah. I can't do this right now." Wiping the granola bar's honey from his hands onto the carpet, Shota silenced his mind once depressive sleep tugged at his eyelids. "Bedtime." He picked up the cat and climbed back into the bed that was too big for a five-year-old. The blank nothingness of sleep was always better than anything in his waking life. That, he'd learned from muscle memory.

Tsuba(…?) came over more often. But this day, he had a particular interest in Shota. Mama let him pick Shota up from school, said she had things to do that required time away from home for a few hours. Without her son. Granddad and Grandmum were not to be told or it'd be a whooping. So, Shota had no choice but to put up with forced company that afternoon. Mama's boyfriend made an after-school snack of pear spears and peanut butter. He'd even popped open a soda for the child, raising his eyebrows as if it could be their little secret. Shota gave him a kind smile and a thank-you, and left it at that. They ate on the verandah—Shota didn't care much for making this a special occasion, but he politely went along with the man's request.

Tsubasa went on spitting out utterances about the stock market and this jerk-off Taka at work who thought he owned the place. Shota watched him speak, taking note of each swell of anger that curled the wrinkles by the man's eyes. Daddy didn't have any wrinkles. Mama did. Now. Maybe that's why they got along better than her and Daddy—those wrinkles. Branches of sadness, like scars left on heroes in the movies, that could only be understood by those cut from the same ribbon.

Daddy didn't understand.

He couldn't, not now. He died.

The scene was nice, as it often was in this country-slash-port town. The sun sailed still fresh across the early evening sky, treading creamy blue whose horizons hinted orange and purple where the sea and mountains peeked. Asterid and laurel trees flocked into the evergreen forests, scattered throughout the town, setting blueprints for appropriate buildings and roads and highways. Some of every bit of the town could be seen from the verandah.

"So, your mom's told me you got some trouble at school," the man spoke first, sipping a beer and taking one of Shota's pear slices. He ate the entire thing in one bite.

Shota sat with his legs crossed, looking up at the large man next to him. "It— It's 'cause of my Quirk. Or my stutter."

"Yeah," the man said in his different way of speaking. "That'll do it."

The way he said that'll was interesting to Shota, like no letter went unsaid. A Main Islander. He tilted his head, but opted not to say anything on it. "H—… Uh, s-sorry." The man looked at him and waited. "Your name, I…"

After a festering silence, the man nodded. "Ah, I see. Tsubasa." Seeing Shota physically trying to sound it out, he repeated, "Tsu…buh…suh. Three parts in one sound. Tsubasa. See?"

"Tsu…buh..suh." Shota frowned, concentrating on the sound, willing his stutter to have some damn mercy for once. "Tsubasa."

"There you go."

Shota held back his surprise—the man seemed scarier when he was near Mama. As if her rudeness infected him and everyone else around them. Shota wondered if that had been the case all along, and he'd been too young, too stupid, too babyish to realize it. Maybe he was a jerk whenever he was around Mama, too.

No. Shota shot that out of his head. His behavior was his behavior. He'd get nowhere blaming anyone. He had to remember to repeat that in his head from now on: my fault. This isn't anyone's fault, but mine. Babies blamed other people for their mistakes. He had to be far from a baby now. Mama needed him to be. Granddad and Grandmum, too.

"So, what'cha like to do? I notice you hide in your room a lot." Tsubasa gave a smirk when he said this. One of curiosity that seemed a little too prying. But because he was an adult, Shota had to listen and hide his irritation with being studied. "What'cha do in there all day long?"

"I-I… Read." Saying this, Shota wished nothing more than to run back to the safety of his room to hide in the covers and disappear between the pages of The House of the Seven Gables again. He hardly understood it, aside from the central idea that the Pyncheons sucked as a family. Almost like his. Phoebe's gentleness and natural charisma reminded him of the old Mama. The Mama that died when Daddy did. Now, she was more like the snappish Clifford. Cruel, selfish, and blaming others for her problems. A baby again. "Just that. Reading."

Tsubasa seemed satisfied. He swung his legs repeatedly over the deck, his heels knocking the wooden underside that jolted Shota just a bit to draw his attention to it. Shota thought it was funny to see an adult do something like that. "I used to like to read a lot. But I got better pleasure in mechanics."

"Your job, right?"

The man ruffled his hair a little too heavily. "Ah, an interrogation, huh? I like you, boy." He stopped swinging his leg, grunting and rubbing the joint. "I work in machinery mechanics. I'm the manager. Know what that means?"

"You're… the boss?"

"Damn right."

"Oh. Cool ."

"Damn right." Tsubasa looked out to the weathered street that stretched before the house, scanned the small houses on either side of the residence, eyeing bark-dripping trees by a broken swing set. To the left, children played in the street where a plumbing leak propelled water, splashing in the town's official funds without care. Shota watched them, too, knowing Mama would be angry if he so much as said hello. Tsubasa looked at him. "You wanna go play with them? Go. I won't be offended."

Shota quickly shook his head, face turning pink at the thought. Nothing frightened him quite like the gaping stares of children his age. He inched closer to Tsubasa.

The man laughed and nudged the child with his broad shoulder. "Tell me something." The way Shota rolled his eyes up in response made him look like a begging puppy. "You like it here? This house?"

Shota shrugged. "I guess." He thought nothing more about it.

Who cared about the house? It was the people inside that he was trying to figure out.

That night, Mama was sick. Really sick. She never left the toilet, like on the days when she had too much sauce. But she didn't smell like anything sharp or chemical-like. Shota brought her soup and peeled/skinned fruit and water and sat with her as she vomited into the toilet. He said nothing; what was the point? She'd be angry at him either way. Instead, he just watched her with dull, sympathetic eyes, running his finger along the tile lines. When she started nibbling at the skinless apple slices, chugging water, he left her there to herself, convincing himself that he was satisfied with what he'd done. Least she ate.

Her boyfriend cared for her after they'd thought Shota went to bed. By now, Shota had grown accustomed to his keys' banter, his heavy limping footsteps, his grumble of a voice. Shota snuck to the threshold of the living room arch, close enough to hear them and close enough to run back to bed if they heard him. Carpet floors were a godsend for eavesdropping, curious children like him. Clutching his toy to his chest, inching near the threshold, he knew that even a single lock of his hair would show up on Mama's radar. She'd be after him like Tom on Jerry, but in an alternate universe that guarantees Tom's victory.

Mama said it in a sob: I'm pregnant.

Her boyfriend's words were a relief: Stop drinking… The next, to her only: and marry me.

##

She did. Fast.

It was hardly a wedding—it was a wedding, just no one was happy about it. Grandmum and Granddad came, too. They sat where they were expected to like glossed statues with the grace of French death masks on haunches of thick meat, swelled not by coagulated blood, but by silent disapproval of him.

Yes, him. The bulking, sweating mass that now leeched off the family line. Another prime example of an unwelcomed link to a dented chain.

Shota stood wherever Granddad said he should be, somewhere between the older, taller boys who nudged him in the ribs if he stepped too close. The girls whispered about him behind half-assed shielding hands, glancing at him and giggling about his hair or his shrugging way of standing. He watched Mama, though she hardly blinked his way, but that was fine. He supposed. She only watched Tsubasa with close eyes, a frozen smile, but somehow her eyes, her face, even her hands gripping the bouquet seemed too… old. Too much. Too soon. Her eyes pinched a little too hard, her smile seemed too stretched, her expression too plastic. Mama was hardly thirty. Young, even to Shota's knowledge. He'd had a great-great aunt who lived to a hundred and four. He supposed it was because of the four—four meant death.

But Mama looked too… he didn't know—used to this kind of party. She pulled the dress out of her closet. She'd only worn it before Chi was born, and then again when Shota was one; and now again for this Tsubasa guy. He'd heard his grandparents whispering about it during the after-party. Shota snuck up on them.

Grandmum spat in a hushed, boiling voice Shota had not ever heard from her, "I swear she hates him. He's the only one."

"She doesn't hate him, Yoona," Granddad said, calmly. He guided her to the corner of the room as if telepathically sensing a peeking presence. "He's her son. And damn, I mean, he's stuck by her side all this time. Even when she's drunk and—"

"Well, he doesn't have a choice. He's five."

"He could run away." Granddad sighed. "Remember when he stayed over with us? All he could think about was if his mama was safe."

"He's… too young to know what else to think about, Sheeran."

"Shota ain't oblivious. That kid watched me make tea eggs once, and now he can make 'em better than I can." A chuckle. "No wonder his Quirk busted out of his eyes. Sees too much."

Grandmum shook her head, crossing her shawl over her chest and securing it with folded arms. Glaring down Mama—Shota now understood where Mama's unblinking stare came from. "How could she let him be branded a… by-blow. Divorce or not, if you're having a baby by the same man—"

"It's bad luck to talk about past marriages at a wedding. Maybe third time's the charm."

"I'm not satisfied. I don't care."

"She's already pregnant, Yoona."

"—She could've just eloped with Yori before he was born. And yes, at least the third child will be born to married parents! But where does that leave Shota?! It's just him!"

"I know." Granddad squeezed her hand.

"Poor little thing… I'll spoil him twice as much from now on. He deserves better than what this family is…"

"Something tells me he already knows what he wants. And something else tells me that this family is a great deal of it. But…" A sigh. "Well, let's just enjoy the ambiance, dear. Where's he, anyway?"

Shota had no idea what that meant—a by-blow?—so he assumed Grandmum was railing on with one of her overdramatized stories. He thought about it all night long, even when he hid under one of the table's cloths for a place to sleep. He watched the fidgeting legs of adults he didn't know and curled into a ball. He hoped somehow that if he squeezed himself into a tight enough ball, the assaulting music would give up and smother itself down to a hum. He was positive it was about five-times past his bedtime. He'd heard Granddad calling him earlier under all the noise, but even he gave up after a bit. Or at least Shota thought he did. No one could search forever. Or would.

Hands scooped him up and dragged him out to the cold, dim room.

He forced open his eyes to see Mama there, her updo a tad undone from hours of dancing and laughing—and of course drinking. She reeked of wine as she winked. "Wanna dance, baby boy?"

Shota grumbled.

She took him away with her onto the dance floor where she tried to place him on his feet to stand. He refused, clinging to her neck, squeezing his legs to her sides. "Don't wanna stand?" He clung harder and made another defiant noise. So she balanced him on her hip and swayed to music that bounced on sub-beats and thudded on the main beats. He rested his head on her shoulder when she moved him to latch onto her from the front. Stabilizing him there with both hands, she rested her chin on his tiny shoulder and hummed into his ear, "Thing's will be better now."

For everyone's sake, he prayed she'd be right this time. But for now, all he said was: okay. Rocking to the jump of her dancing, he fell into a finally-peaceful sleep that smelled only of her hair and sang only in her voice.

Mama and Tsubasa left him with Granddad and Grandmum for two weeks. This stay was more quiet than the one before. Shota for the most part sat alone in front of the TV that his grandparents thought would distract him from their conversation in the kitchen. Same words on loop: she's making a mistake, poor Shota, she can't because she's pregnant, it's not Shota's fault. He began to wonder if they were repeating it because it was the truth or because they needed to hear it themselves.

Weeks later—or a month and a day later, to be exact—the silence of night submitted to the storm of Mama's screams. Tsubasa's racing footsteps came from the living room to the master bedroom. Shota had been reading under his covers with Maisie, killing the light and lying on the book in case Tsubasa took a detour to his room. Mama's yells shot through the thin walls, punctuated by Tsubasa's sharp utterances to "go there" and "stay here." He raced to the hallway. "Shota!"

Shota flinched, reeling back into the covers and wrapping it tight over his head.

The door opened—"Hey"—pacing steps and a heavy hand rattling his tiny body. "Hey, hey." The blankets raked back and the two heavy hands gripped his arms, pulling him to sit. "Wake up."

Shota "woke up" in a flinching way. Two large honey drops switched between the searching stare of his now-stepfather.

"Good boy. Come on." Tsubasa lifted him easily under his arm, plopped him down in front of a chipped, stained dresser. Granddad made it when Chi was born, cut down the tree himself. Chi poured Mama's nail polish all over it, smeared it together with her hands full of a top-coat sealer. Tsubasa chipped it when he moved it across the room, occupying the space Chi had left in the room. They put a crib in there instead.

Shota remained silent as his arm was tugged through sleeves and his shirt was stuffed inside a thick coat. "Wh—"

"I think I know the answer to that one." Tsubasa said that a lot whenever he got annoyed with Shota's stuttering. He usually guessed right, too. Usually. Other times, Shota didn't bother telling him different. More talking equaled more chance of trouble. "We're going to the hospital. Your mommy's gonna have your little brother. Remember that?"

Shota nodded.

"We have to hurry."

"That why she's screaming?"

"Bet your ass." Tsubasa, with heavy, but not painful force, swatted some dirt stains off Shota's coat's side. "What'cha getting yourself into, huh?"

"Puddles," Shota admitted. His stepfather gave him a quizzical look, nose scrunched up with a certain gaze that made him squeamish. He fumbled with his fingers, shrugging his surrender. "Sorry."

"You're a crazy li'l monster, aren't ya?" Those sturdy, not-particularly-muscular-or-fat arms scooped him up so that he hung by the man's hip. Shota yelped in surprise that morphed to thrilled laughter at the rough play. In all the movement, he managed to grab the book that he'd been hiding, squeezing it to his chest. "Come on." Tsubasa chuckled, chugging off to the foyer. He put Shota down and pointed to his shoes, sitting to put on his own. "Mama's in the car. Don't start crying 'cause she's in pain. The pain's a good thing."

Tucking his feet into his cold-weather shoes, Shota stared at him.

"Pain means you're still alive. Means the baby's fighting to get to us, too. Quiet babies aren't good ones. Hurry up."

"Okay."

"Get."

Shota obeyed, rushing to the car, hopping up into the backseat. The moment he heard his mama's screaming, saw her face distorted with sweat and agony, heard the tears in her voice and saw how she grasped her round belly, his eyes watered. Forgotten was the copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets that lay sprawled in spite of itself. He squeezed as close he could to her, halfway climbing on the central compartment. But he said nothing, refrained from touching her. When Mama drank some sauces that made her too loopy, she always lurched in pain in her sleep for the first few hours. She didn't liked being touched or talked to when in pain. He knew that. So, he remained by her side in silence. A ghost.

The door slammed and he saw Tsubasa limp-running to the car. When the man tossed himself into the driver's seat, he glanced at Shota. "Sit down. I'm driving fast." He obeyed, buckling himself in the way he saw his grandparents do. Before he was ready, the car tore through the blank canvas of asphalt that was the street. Yoko's howls died down to whimpers and labored breaths for a bit before she lurched around and cursed God.

The hospital took Mama away. Tsubasa left him in the waiting room, where nurses with sympathetic smiles and soft voices offered him juice and crackers, nodding him toward the TV. Other people sat in silence in the room as well, huddled together, keeled over in some stomach pain, or talking in whispers over a phone. Shota ignored them all and tried to read his book. But his mind remained planted on Mama—Mama in pain. And there he sat, on his ass, unable to do anything useful for her.

So, he laid down. The briskness of the still air lulled him just enough to seek out warmth in his own jacket. He curled up on the cheap cushion. Cradled himself to sleep.

Tsubasa lifted him all too soon, speaking as gently as his rough voice could manage. "Shota." That massive hand shook him awake. "Come on."

"Where's Mama?"

"I'm taking you to her, if you'd get up already." Tsubasa lifted Shota with a single arm, his other hand occupied by his cane. The clunks of his cane poked the murmurs of the room in steady intervals, and Shota leaned his head on Tsubasa's hospital-gowned shoulder, defeated by lingering sleep. "You're a cute little thing, boy. You know that?"

They went into a room in the far back. Loud voices that cooed and whispered congratulations startled Shota awake and alert. He looked over his shoulder when he heard Mama call for him. Her olive skin was deep and chalky, hair matted down with sweat, and she was smiling. In her arms was a blue blanket. "Come here, baby boy," she said to him. "Come see your little brother."

Tsubasa placed Shota on a stool a nurse provided beside his mother. Shota focused on her: the sag of her shoulders, the heaviness of her head against the pillow, how each breath never seemed enough. Then, he looked down. And fell in love.

"This's him. Jong." Mama chuckled. Tsubasa came around the other side, an arm protectively cradling her shoulders. "He's your baby brother."

"Means you protect him," Tsubasa said in a sturdy voice. When Shota looked up, their eyes met in an extended silence. Then, Tsubasa roughly patted his back in a heavy-handed, but affectionate way. "You watch him good. You're a big brother now."

Shota nodded and dropped his attention to the pink-faced, sandy-haired, saliva-bubbling baby in the sea of blue cotton. He gently offered his ring finger, onto which baby Jong grasped with little to no strength at all. "Hi, Jong." He said this with a tenderness that bordered on that of a content aged man, hardly an anxious five-year-old. "Jiggy." At that, both brothers smiled: one in calm resolve, the other in natural trust. Shota kissed his brother's nose with about as much contact as a breeze causing water to imply a ripple. "I'm gonna keep you safe. Forever."

Jong giggled and lifted his other hand to fist a bit of Shota's hair.

"I promise."

Please R&R!