Mélodie

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I in any way officially affiliated with, the characters in this story. Gravitation is the original creation of Maki Murakami.
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Prelude
Mika

I was fifteen the year our mother died.

Sometimes, when I look through old photographs, I can remember her voice and the way she moved. I can remember her smile, and the way her cooking tasted, and all the best moments of my childhood. I can remember her life. Uesugi Takara was a beautiful, kind woman, and a loving mother. There are a lot of people who are not so lucky, and I had her for fifteen years. I can remember that, when I try. So I suppose...it's really terrible that most of the time...I only remember her death.

I remember...she left us behind. Left me alone. Left us alone.

Even before that, it was not easy to get close to my father. He was, and is, technically a good man...if weighed on the scales of moral exactitude and duty, and not on the scales of love. I don't think he even knew how to be affectionate with someone other than our mother. Even then, his was a possessive love. I really think he almost saw his children as rivals for his Takara's devotion. But at least when he had her, he had something in his life other than duty.

I don't question for a moment that her death devastated him. Yet grief can sometimes be a selfish, petty thing. When she died, what little softness there was in him died, too. He turned to his duty to the temple, to the coldness of daily ritual, and from then on, he closed himself off to everyone. It was as if he buried the best part of his soul with her.

In a sense, I became an orphan, and a mother to my little brothers. I honestly don't know how we got through that time. At least Tatsuha was barely a year old then, and primarily the responsibility of his nanny. He didn't understand what had happened—how could he? But Eiri...oh, my Eiri...

Eiri was always such a sensitive child, precocious and perceptive. All it took to hurt him was one harsh word, one glare. He was shattered. "Inconsolable" is just a word until you see it in the face of a seven-year-old boy who's lost his mother. And truthfully, I wasn't much better off.

I had always loved and protected my little brother. There wasn't much sibling rivalry between us. It was far too easy to hurt him, and I always felt so guilty afterward. Now we clung to each other desperately in our grief. When he realized our mother was gone forever, he developed a fear—nearly a phobia—that I would leave him, too. For the first couple of months he woke up shaking and sobbing almost every night.

There was nothing for it but to have him sleep in my room. When he woke, so did I. I'd sit next to him on his futon and hold him until he was reassured that I was still there. Usually, we wept together until we were both exhausted and he fell asleep in my arms. Sometimes I woke up still holding his hand.

I lost a lot of sleep during that time, but I can hardly describe how close we grew.

In time, it seemed almost as though we ran out of grief. The loss of our mother was no longer quite so sharp and tearing. It gave way to numbness, then sorrow, softer and easier to bear. Eiri's nightmares became less frequent, and there were whole days when I didn't have to run and find somewhere to cry.

Mom died in the spring. By fall, we were able to face school again...more solemn than the other students, perhaps, but not anguished. And the bond between us had not lessened.

After our first day back, I chose not to hang around to socialize with the other students of my high school. Instead, I stood in front of the primary school for nearly an hour. When the class let out, Eiri looked so anxious and alone until he spotted me; then he ran to hug me, relief written all over his face. It was all the reward I needed.

We walked home together every day after that. Other girls in my class went shopping. They invited me at first, but I always turned them down. Eventually, the friends who'd stayed with me even through the mourning period drifted away. They were sympathetic, but (correctly, I guess) pointed out to me that I didn't have time for them anymore, anyway. Word started to get around that I was a little odd; boys took the hint and left me alone.

Actually, I wouldn't have minded the company at school...it was just that Eiri needed me after school more than I needed to waste time and money shopping for earrings. Our walks home had become special. He would quietly tell me all his little daily troubles with perfect trust, and somehow helping him with his problems always made me feel better about mine.

The routine helped us both feel more secure, I think. At that time, in that place, there was nothing more important. We helped each other heal. By winter, we were almost happy, and by then, I knew that things could keep getting better. Grief heals quickly in your youth, and I was so young.

I was so sure that we'd weathered the worst life had to offer. We'd suffered a great loss, but had gained a closer friendship than most siblings ever have, and it was unassailable. Nothing bad would ever happen to us again.

I was so young.