Remote Control
He wasn't comfortable. Not yet. He still was more prone to look at the outside through the window than to go and play in it. He still barely talked, and when he did it was a rushed, intense sentence and his eyes would grow hard and focus on the floor. It would be foolish to think that this place would suddenly become a home for him, that he would run down the halls, shout and play, and that he wouldn't be timid around the tall man who was little more than a stranger with a deep connection to him. But even without much of an expectation his progress into this becoming a home for him was slower than what could rationally, and even shallowly, be expected. He had his own things, his own room, even his own—small as they might be—chores to attend to, but none of these helped to ease the isolation he felt in this unfamiliar place and make him feel more at ease. And he would sit by the window and watch without a word, himself being watched and a heart breaking for him silence.
It had been nearly two months since Kazuma had taken him in. Nearly two months since Kazuma had been his salvation from a family who despised him for a problem not his own, a fresh loss of a mother, and a father who hated him and blamed him for his wife's death. Kazuma watched all of this unfold, remembered a grandfather despised and isolated, and offered himself and his home for a child cursed by the cat. It had been to atone for cruel words spoken to a loving grandfather, also to protect the child from a terrible fate as long as he could, and because his heart couldn't let his family wound the young boy's soul with abuse, neglect, and malicious solitude. And now that he was part of Kazuma's life he had become a warming, albeit lonely light that he would always hold dear.
Kazuma slipped through the front door and slid of his sandals. He walked down a short hall and looked into the main living room. Kyo sat by the window as usual, looking outside. He perked up a bit when he heard Kazuma, turned, and gave the older man a brief, wary smile, which he returned. And then he looked back out the window. Kazuma approached and knelt next to him.
"How are you, Kyo?" The little boy nodded in reply. "School will start soon," Kazuma then commented. Kyo nodded again. And then Kazuma saw that perched on Kyo's lap was the remote for the television. His brows lifted in curiosity. "Is that a remote control?" Now Kyo met his eyes, and his nod was more defensive. "Why, might I ask," Kazuma smiled warmly, "do you have the controller when you're not even watching the TV?"
"Because," Kyo said, his breathing becoming shallower, "then I can if I want to." It was a control issue, Kazuma realized like a stab, and it suddenly made sense. Kyo wanted to be able to be in control of something. He had never been able to control hardly anything in his life, and this television remote, ridiculous as it seemed to an adult, was to Kyo as a child something he could grasp and that was under his control.
"Is that the only thing you can control?" Kazuma thought he could help him by teaching him a small lesson. Kyo would then realize that there were other things, though probably small like going outside, or eating, that he could control and respond accordingly.
But Kyo said, "Yes. The only thing." His little hands were gripping the remote control hard, and his tiny knuckles were white. Kazuma then realized exactly how deep the wounds Kyo had already received from the Sohma's were, and wondered if there was ever a way, any way, that he could even begin to heal them.