A/N: Spawned from too much Mulan. (sigh) Anyway, I think it's sort of plotless--just three scenes depicting a change in Takao's and Hitoshi's lives that they may not have expected, and, at these points, may not affect them at all.

Dislcaimer: no own!

Summary: Takao digs around in some old, musty boxes. Fun! Brother bonding fic, I hope. Three Chapters only! Woo! I have a GOAL! (happySQUEE!)

One / Three

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"Memoir"

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Takao groaned as he clicked the light to the basement on. He had been vaguely aware of a basement existing in his house, but had never actually gone down before. And now that Daichi was bawling (aka, had caught the flu) and Jiichan was bawling (aka, had caught the flu from Daichi), takaing care of the basic necessities of the house fell to him, plus taking care of his grandfather and teammate.

But it got better. That morning, his father and brother had called and said they would arrive that night around eight, and said they would be bringing a 'special guest' with them (his father's words). There was only one spare futon upstairs, so Jiichan had muttered about two more down in the basement. Over the phone, Takao had easily sidestepped questions about the other two occupants of the house.

But that failed to change the fact that he was still two futons out, so, grumbling, Takao marched down the stairs, ducked through a small opening, and stepped into a dust-covered cellar packed with boxes and old furnature, and who knew what else...

Now where would the futons be? In a box?

Doubtfully, Takao moved to the back of the dimly lit cellar. The cold, concrete ceiling was only just high enough for Takao's short 16-year-old form, and in some places, as he stepped over various things, he felt the ceiling brush the tip of his hat, sending miniscule avalanches of dust down. He shivered and stopped at what looked like it could be a futon covered with a white sheet.

Takao grasped the white material and yanked, sending a wave of dust into his face. Choking, he dropped it and backed away slightly, rubbing his rapidly tearing eyes until the dust cleared. Sadly, it wasn't a futon--just a smallish box filled with oddly shaped substances. Disappointed, Takao moved on.

"This is stupid," he told nobody in particular. Pausing, he listened hard; no noise whatsoever. Checking over his shoulder to make sure the main door was still open, Takao continued on to the very back, where he was more careful in pulling things away. This box was bigger, about chest height, and filled with linen. Sighing, Takao began to dig through it, and cheerfully yanked out--

half a futon.

"Half? The heck? What's with this?" Stupid basement cellar thing. Dropping the once-futon, Takao continued digging through the box until something hard brushed his hand; he pulled out what looked like a thick black box, about the size of a dictionary, and frowned.

"What're you doing in there...?" he wondered, and used the sleeve on his other hand to wipe the thick dust off the cover. In curling, faded green characters, it read:

To My Dearest Yoshie,

While I Am Away And Your father Ryuusuke Is Ill,

Keep This For Your Memoirs

And Tell Me Everything That I Miss

When I Return.

Love,

Mother

Takao raised his eyebrows. He hadn't seen the names of any of his family members on paper since the last letter his father sent, perhaps six months ago. And in all truth, he hadn't seen his grandfather's and mother's names on paper in... years...it felt strange seeing them now.

"Was this from my grandmother?" Takao wondered aloud. He turned the dusty cover open. It creaked with age, and the old smell of musty aged leather reached his nose. Eyes watering again, Takao fought a sneeze and examined the back of the cover. It looked like a letter, yellowed with age. The characters had all faded, so Takao abandoned examining it specifically and instead glanced to the next page.

It, too, was filled with paper, several bits of it. Again, it was unreadable.

The next two pages, however, were gold. Takao breathed in slowly, deeply, as he was greeted with faded pictures of his mother as a girl. One depicted her in a sundress with--was that Jiichan?--a heavy breeze blowing her and her father's hats away. Another showed a kind, middle-aged woman that Takao didn't know; there was one of a boy, and then his mother and that same boy. They looked around his age.

They were his parents...

Turning the pages, Takao examined several more images of his parents and his mother's friends, family, and life. He had never seen so much of her--being only five when she died, he remembered little, and nobody ever spoke of her. Mentioning the name 'Yoshie,' in fact, seemed almost forbidden, until it faded from Takao's memory...

There weren't just pictures. There were notes, pressed flowers, letters, and even what looked like a map. The first fourth of the book depicted Yoshie's teenage years and high school graduation, her engagement to his father, and a much more familiar--although not quite--picture of his grandfather.

Near the middle, Takao found her wedding. She had been a beautiful woman...

Then there were babies. At these points, little notes and letters were easier to read, and pressed plants weren't as brittle. One image of a baby in a diaper covered in spaghetti was marked as 'precious,' and another of his father--now recognizable--holding that same baby up with a faded pink sticky note that read 'Hitoshi's first birthday.' Skipping on, Takao watched his elder brother grow from a smaller than usual, rather scrawny infant into an adorable toddler with enormous brown eyes. Letters from the school pertaining to Hitoshi's excellence filled almost three pages; then what must have been the death of his grandmother, and a few more letters after that.

Next was Takao. Swallowing, Takao examined his mother's exhausted features as she held him--a plump, screaming baby--in the hospital, with his father next to her bed grinning. The picture following was of a preteen Hitoshi trying to support Takao in one arm and a plate with goodies in the other, rocking precariously on a skateboard. In fact, most of the pictures of Takao showed him being held by his brother or father, Yoshie, perhaps, the one taking them.

One page was a copy of his birth certificate.

Another was filled with his first step.

Then there was Yoshie, back in a hospital bed, Hitoshi and Takao sleeping at her sides. There was Yoshie's gravestone, with flowers decorating it--her favorite flowers. There was Hitoshi holding his toddler brother in his arms while the child--Takao wondered if he had really been that fat--cried hysterically.

Then there was a copy of Yoshie's will; and the rest of the Memoir book was blank--all of three pages. The very back, though, had a small space for storing things. There, Takao pulled out drawings done by small children, what looked like a bit chip, and a silver pendant with the minute inscription of a blue dragon on the front and the family crest--was THAT what the family crest looked like?--on the back. When he opened it, there ere the small, faded pictures of Jiichan and his wife on one side and a young Hitoshi and infant Takao with their father on the other. An old, sleepy tune tinked its way into the cellar.

Takao recognized the lullaby. Biting his lip, he closed the locket and slipped it into his pocket before placing the book back into its box, covering it with sheets.

He understood why nobody wanted to talk about her. She had been perfect. Takao wished he had been able to get to know her better. He wondered, briefly, who had continued to update the book after she had died. Shaking his head, he left those thoughts and covered the box again, deciding to look elsewhere for futons. Jiichan had said they'd be in the basement under the dojo somewhere, so they would have to be.

Takao would just have to keep from getting sidetracked.

He could do that. He was the World Champ--what couldn't he do?

Grinning, Takao searched on.