Disclaimer: Very much do not own Souen no Kiseki.
Notes: I realize now that this must be horribly overdone. Forgive me. 'twas written at 2 in the morning. >.
Words
The streets were busy, filled with people of all sizes who were (mostly) bigger than the six-year-old boy called Ike. His hand was nestled in the calloused, large palm of his father's, a goofy smile on his face as he pranced down the walk chatting animatedly. A baby Mist was on Greil's back in a carrier, cooing in her endearing way as a response to all of her blue-haired brother's words.
Such was the routine nearly every day. The family would always take a long walk (or ride, in Mist's case) to the town in which they would restock and, more importantly, look for work at the local tavern. And sometimes, sometimes (although they wouldn't notice) a pair of crimson eyes would follow them around in the bar. Red orbs that with them would take a tired, scruffy-looking head of long black hair, a thin body, and bony limbs swathed in ragged grey clothing.
A couple months had passed before the street rat had begun his (or her, the child was beautiful, but too scrawny to tell.) stalker-like tendencies and predilections for the family. It had become warmer, and the alleyways weren't so uncomfortable at night any more.
It was raining that day. Just the standard summer shower, bringing warm wetness down to the sun-scorched streets and giving new life to the wildflowers that had just started blooming. But there Ike stood, holding out one of those flowers, pale fuchsia in hue, to the other child and smiling like the fireball that had been hidden behind the sheets of stormy clouds.
But then was when the orphan was "picked up." Somehow the blue-haired boy had persuaded his father to allow him to bring home the shorter child, although the adolescent wasn't a pet as Ike seemed convinced was true.
Hours later, the red-eyed stray was groomed and cleaned and dressed, resting in Ike's bed as said six-year-old watched "it" curiously. In and out, in and out. The urchin's breathing was steady but slightly labored, his chest moving with careful rhythm. Ike reached up, his innocent unsullied hands grazing the sleeping orphan's cheek ever so slightly, but enough to rouse the youth.
Ike beamed brightly, eyes lighting up as he regarded the waif who was now sitting up and looking around in confusion. "Hey, hey. I'm Ike. What's your name?"
The black-haired orphan opened their mouth but managed only a squeak, reminiscent of a cat being stepped on. Ike cocked his head at this and made a humming noise in query, but was answered again with the same helpless mewl.
He didn't continue, instead clambering on the bed (situating himself behind the slimmer child) and tangling his fingers in the now-silky dark locks. He produced white bands from the table next to the pallet, proceeding then to tie back the hair into two long, albeit messy, ponytails. When the orphan looked back, Ike just smiled again and left.
This happened days upon days. It had not sooner occurred to Ike that the youth they had plucked from the streets was semi-mute than he had begun speech lessons, teaching the other slowly how to talk just like he did. It was in these sessions that he had learned about and bonded with the other, who had been discovered a male child just as he.
The first thing he said outside of his tutor's directions was "Ike," (which he used often) the second "thank you."
It was not until weeks later that the orphan was sufficiently fluent in the language, now being able to converse with Ike with but a few complications. He was reserved and quiet, (Traits spawning from his long-winded solitude and being generally ignored by everyone else) usually only asking "Ike? Ike?" when socializing with people other than his azure-haired companion.
He was smart and an avid reader (being literate before learning how to speak, oddly enough) but a little "weird" as labeled by many of the others in the area. He could make things happen inexplicably, such as blasts of wind on a calm day or lightning from nowhere, and more than that, he had strange red eyes and an orange mark on his forehead.
Ike stood by him, and the next day after being harangued by some other children, had learned the words "friend" and "love."
Another clear night, the two were seated once more on Ike's bed by the window. On a table nearby was a book in some strange language with a wooden sword on top, remnants of that day's activities. They had been sharing for a few days now, and spent most of their time there studying or staring up at the sky.
"Do you have a name?"
The orphan shook his head. "No. Why?"
"Because my mother told me, she told me that the person you love's name is the sweetest thing you can say. Sweeter than candy!" Ike turned to look at the other, straight in the eyes, glowing.
"Oh." He glanced around, wondering what else to say. "Maybe… you give me a name. Could. Maybe. To have candy sweeter than candy." The stray looked a little puzzled at what Ike had just said, but spoke no more.
"Um. Okay. Will it count, though? Because it won't be your mother's name for you. It'll be mine."
"Don't know. Maybe."
A silence fell between them as the stars twinkled absently in the sky, dancing in the navy-blue heavenly ballroom that they occupied. Some animal cried in the background, a single howl amongst the chirping of the crickets and whistling of the wind. It seemed like ages, especially to a pair of six-year-olds.
"Soren. How about Soren? Soren is the name of this pretty fish who lives in the ocean and sings. It's pretty, pretty like you. Is it good?"
"Okay. I am Soren. I like this name. Thank you, Ike." He- no, Soren- smiled sincerely, the small warm gesture being lost to the darkness but understood nevertheless.
Ike sat behind him again, and began tying his hair, this time plaiting a small pink wildflower into one of the braids. His friend leaned back into him, sighing softly in half contentment, half exhaustion.
"Ike." Soren said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"… it doesn't taste like candy…"
Ike means "siren." Really lame excuse for the name.