"Maybe you can spend the night with me and Mom some time," Takeru says offhandedly the morning after a sleepover at the Ishida residence. He's not an Ishida anymore, not one of them (hasn't been for a while, won't be one ever again), and mercifully, it no longer aches to know this. He's full of hope, actually. A part of him dares to wonder if his older brother could try to be a Takaishi, like him.
However, his statement catches Yamato (who has recently taken to wearing nothing but varying shades of black as a fashion statement) off guard. Hunched over the kitchen table, he allows a hiatus from collecting dirty dishes to blink at Takeru, who can't help but smile to mask the feeling that he said the wrong thing. Uncertainty lurks in Yamato's eyes, doubt etched in his furrowed brows. Shock. As if Takeru had knocked the wind out of him, punched him in the gut.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, Hiroaki peers nonchalantly over the rim of his mug at them and swallows his emotions along with a gulp of hot coffee.
"You should," he says to his eldest son, adjusting his tie and clearing his throat. "Your mother would love to see you."
Yamato sinks into his chair and stares at his palms.
"Maybe you could make breakfast for her," Hiroaki suggests easily before bidding them a good day and closing the door behind him.
Guilt needles beneath Takeru's skin - his brother isn't ready. Not yet.