Chapter Text
“I mean, spelled with an alphabet, Internet searches usually say it’s a Japanese girl or a German boy name.”
“Pronounced differently,” Michael corrects, pulling the laundry from the basket.
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Yoichi exclaims. “I’m telling you, the sounds are different. O, oh!” he demonstrates.
“That’s the same fucking sound, Yoichi.”
Yoichi clicks his tongue and turns away. “What’s the problem anyway? Boy or girl, he’s just a kid. It’s the same thing.”
“Yeah,” Michael agrees (biting his tongue—they’re very much not the same). He starts pinning the clothes to the line.
“Hello? Earth to Mihya! What’s the issue here?”
“There’s no issue. Quiet now, I’m working.”
Yoichi steps in front of him, obscured by fabric tickled by the warm breeze. Even in his periphery, Michael can see his husband pout. “Don’t say that like you can’t talk and pin clothes to the line at the same time.”
“You’re talking too much.”
“I’m talking a normal amount!” he protests.
He shoves a shirt into his hands. “Pin.”
Yoichi grumbles but acquiesces. “Tell me.”
“I just got off a plane, Yoichi.”
“I know that!” He takes another shirt from Michael’s hands and hangs them on the line.
“Seventy-two hours ago, we were childless footballers dreading the start of the off-season.”
He nods. “I know.” He exhales. “It’s fast. But I told you, you don’t have to do this. You don’t need to force yourself.”
Michael scowls. “I would never leave you to do this by yourself.”
He hums.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“What plan?”
“With Eiko.”
“Eikō.”
“Yeah, whatever. The kid.”
“Eikō needs to get checked. It’s not like he was breastfeeding or anything when his mom died, but his parents are gone, and he’s living with strangers now. And you heard what Mom said—he’s been eating less and crying more.”
“Babies are moody,” Michael says.
He shrugs. “This is different. According to the government, we’re supposed to be fostering him. I mean, I need to submit the paperwork soon. Then, I can start looking into if his mom had any family.” Yoichi glances at his husband. “There isn’t any guarantee that we’re keeping him.”
(Michael cheers.) (Maybe, Yoichi means that there’s no guarantee that they get to keep him.)
Michael’s focus remains steadily on the house. Yoichi is frantically trying to figure out how to take care of the kid. It’s quite the sight. Ace striker, heart of Blue Lock, master of adaptability—fumbling with baby cups, teething tools, and soiled diapers. Michael would laugh (if he could—if the stakes weren’t so real and immediate). Overwhelmed by the chaos, he keeps out of Yoichi’s way, finding himself in cleaning frenzies and battles with cooking oil and chopsticks.
The third day since Michael’s arrival, Issei wakes up early for his first day returning to work. There’s food in a bentō, breakfast on a plate, and his home is clean.
“Wow!” he remarks, setting his bag on a kitchen seat. He turns, asking, “Michael? What are you doing there?”
“Hey,” he replies tersely, focused on fixing a half-broken fan in the corner of the living area.
“It’s supposed to get warmer soon,” Issei agrees. “Thank you for keeping the house so well.” He picks up his toast with butter and jam. “Say, how much have you slept?”
He takes a towel and wipes a thick layer of dust off the fan’s blades. “The kid was crying last night.”
“Ah. Well, he tends to sleep through the early morning. You should sleep too.” Issei pats his shoulder.
Engrossed in this broken fan, Michael jumps, only to see Issei and his grateful smile.
“Thanks again, Michael. Have a good day.”
“You too,” he finally replies when his father-in-law is halfway out the door.
Apparently, Issei is wrong because it starts crying. For the past three hours, it’d been quiet as Michael cooked, considered the next few days of weather, and found out that the old house relied only on a few fans in centralized rooms. That meant, for the past three hours, Yoichi had been catching up on lost sleep. (What a selfish little—)
The crying stops. Footsteps wander toward the living area.
“That’s right… I know. Did you have a nightmare? Oh, no? Upset tummy? Then, let’s eat some super good and yummy food to keep that from happening again!” Iyo coos as she carries the baby. “Ah, Mikkun, good morning!” she whispers.
He waves.
“Do you mind filling a baby cup with apple juice?”
He stands, dusts himself off, and opens the fridge. Apple juice in hand, he has no idea where baby cups are. (Or what they are?) “Where?”
Iyo stops cooing. “Oh, everything’s misplaced around here these days… It’s much cleaner now, though.” Her eyes wander the room. “Here.”
Michael puts out his hands. A baby stares at him. Intently. “Wait, uh, Iyo—“
“Now, where could it have gone?” she mumbles, roaming the room.
The baby’s incredibly stoic in a stranger’s hold. It just keeps looking at Michael. Its eyes are still wet but now wide and frozen as it processes the shock of Michael before it.
Its eyes, Michael realizes, aren’t brown. They’re hazel, with far more green, blue, and gray than initially expected. Michael’s never met a Japanese by blood who didn’t have brown eyes. (What a strange thing.)
Even more strange is that it’s not crying. It’s the shock and alarm, Michael’s decided, that’s paralyzed the little thing.
“Oh!” Iyo approaches with a bottle. “He’s not crying! What a good boy!” She touches his cheek.
It wrinkles its nose, recoiling and pressing its head into Michael’s forearm.
“Oh, you have an admirer, don’t you, Mikkun?” She smiles and holds out the bottle.
Michael blinks. “What?”
“He looks so comfortable with you! Here, you should help him drink his juice.”
“I—I don’t…” He swallows as Iyo tilts her head quizzically. “I’ve never held it before.”
“Ah!” She claps her hands lightly. “I did think you looked tense! Though I just figured you just weren’t getting much rest.” She puts her hand on his back. “Stand up straight, will you? He’s precious, but he’s not so fragile that you need to hunch over him. Since you want to help him drink, you’ll want to put one hand on his back so his head can rest on your arm. Just like that.”
“And the other hand?”
“Well, he probably won’t be very interested in holding the bottle on his own, so you have to do that for him.”
Michael’s eyes widen. “Hold it with one hand?”
Iyo just giggles. “You’re strong, Mikkun! You can hold a baby with one arm. Just don’t be so tense. He can tell, you know.”
Oh, I’m sure he can…
In the end, he does not get the kid to drink the juice. Correction, he takes two sips before he decides this is not how he wants to spend his Wednesday morning, spitting it out and dribbling all over his clothes. Apparently, the spitting and dribbling is a terribly, awfully tiring thing that’s so damn uncomfortable because it starts fussing. It starts fighting Michael, trying to roll out of his arms and onto the floor.
Iyo quickly interjects to guide Michael to the floor, just in case his grip fails and Eikō decides independence is better than apple juice. (Just in case? Why fall onto the floor? Why so dramatic? Just drink the damn juice!)
Honestly, it’s best for all parties if Michael is not involved in this taking-care-of-the-baby thing. The background work, he can handle—doing the laundry, washing the dishes, preparing food, shopping for groceries. Generally, he does a great job making life as easy as possible for the adults in the house.
Then, Yoichi makes a request. “Come with me to the doctors.”
Michael sits up straight. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“The kid, Mihya. We need to get Eikō checked. Remember?” He eyes him. “We talked about this a couple of days ago.”
He waves his hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve been tired.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says plainly, shutting the door so it’s open just a crack. “You’re still an athlete; don’t wreck your sleep schedule.”
He looks away. “So, when is it?”
“Tomorrow morning. We can get lunch after.”
Michael shakes his head. “Your mom can go with you. She’ll be way more helpful, anyway. I won’t understand what the doctor’s saying.”
Yoichi crosses his arms, challenging, “You don’t want to go with me?”
He hangs his head. “No…”
Yoichi sighs. “That’s fine, you know. I’m not forcing you. I know Mom has experience with—“ he gestures widely, “—all this. I just kinda wanted to figure it out. On my own. But not really on my own.” He frowns and shakes his head. “Never mind.” He turns to open the door. “I’ll see if Mom’s available.”
Instinctively, Michael reaches out and grabs his husband’s wrist.
“What is it?”
For a moment, he says nothing. After all, what’s he supposed to say about all this? It feels like they haven’t had a real conversation about any of it, but Michael draws a blank each time he even thinks about talking. His input in all this is irrelevant, after all.
“Michael,” Yoichi calls firmly.
“I’ll go. With you,”
Yoichi says nothing.
“You’re not forcing me,” he agrees, hoping that’s sufficient as an explanation. (That’s the best he’s got right now.)
“Really?”
Michael looks up.
Shining light blue eyes sparkle as his Yoichi smiles. Wrist still gripped unwaveringly, he willfully moves closer and uses his free hand to hold Michael’s cheek. He kisses his husband, pulling away slightly to sigh and mutter, “Thanks.”
Michael returns the kiss with a peck and a hand stroking his side. Of course, he intends to convey.
Now, Michael isn’t a coward. That’s a damn fact. But who in the world likes doctors? Yoichi doesn’t like doctors, and neither does Michael.
They poke and prod, and it feels so… blegh. Every time, it’s like there’s a new test they want to run. It’s never a routine physical or blood draw. It’s something useless and stupid like hop around on your bad leg (Michael has no such thing), pull down your pants, or recite every detail about every experience in your and your family’s history.
Are pediatricians any different from primary care, urgent care, and sports medicine doctors? Honestly, Michael doesn’t know what to expect from any doctor, kid-friendly or not.
A few things he notices: first, the waiting room is bright, warm, and filled with toys (Eikō has no interest; he’s frozen in Yoichi’s lap and staring at the colorful objects that are surely going to hurt him). The walls are light and vibrant with landscapes, fit with cartoon flowers and a smiling sun. The receptionists, nurses, and doctors have stars and funny animal stickers on their name tags and lanyards. Even to adults, they speak with their voices pitched up.
It’s all uncanny.
And now, some stranger (with a medical license) is looking into its ears as it sits motionless.
“Hey,” Michael starts in German. “This might be a bad time, but is it Japanese?”
“Eikō? You need to stop calling him it. Eikō. Eikō is good.”
He rolls his eyes. “Tell me. He—“ Michael consciously says, “looks like—“
“You?” Yoichi suggests.
Michael whips his head around, mouth open. (Outraged? Scandalized? Astounded?) “I didn’t—“
He giggles into his hand, holding Michael’s arm. Once he settles, he replies, “I was told his mom was Brazilian.”
“Oh. As I was going to say before you interrupted, he looks European.”
Yoichi shrugs. “I don’t know much about how Brazilian people look. But if he does end up taking after you, that’d be a good thing.”
Michael scoffs. “That’s not how this works. He’ll end up like you, I’m certain.”
“Mom’s cousin’s kid hardly promises any real resemblance.”
“I’m not talking about appearances.”
“Pardon me, Isagi-san,” the doctor says. “I’m done with my examination. Eikō-kun was very calm!” she commends.
Michael snorts. (He was pissing himself because a stranger looked down his mouth and shoved a thermometer up his ass.)
Yoichi slaps Michael’s arm. “Is everything okay with him? Is he alright?”
Then, she starts speaking very quickly. Michael can understand this or that, but after five minutes of listening intently, he sighs. He looks at Eikō, still slow-moving as he sits on the examination seat.
Michael walks over, muttering, “Can’t understand them either, can you?” He leans against the seat, arms crossed, watching Yoichi navigate the conversation—focused, curious, worried, optimistic. It’s remarkable how fast he can move through all those emotions. And so fluidly, too.
Michael looks for the side when there’s pressure on his side. Eikō’s head has careened into Michael. (It’s kind of cute.) Upon further inspection, he looks on the verge of… something. Michael has two guesses, neither of them very good, but both involve crying, so hopefully he can nip this in the bud before it devolves into an ear-piercing tantrum at the doctor's office, of all places.
He picks up the kid, carefully sniffing. He even puts a hand under his butt. (Safe, he exhales.) Giving him another once-over, it’s clear that his hazel eyes are starting to water. The kid’s about to move on from petrified paralysis to emotional crying. (Really, let’s keep the sobbing and the screaming to a minimum. It does nothing but bother everyone else.)
So, mildly and quietly, they sit together listening to an incomprehensible conversation. At some point, Yoichi sighs and glances at his husband, flinching.
Michael furrows his brow, mouthing, What? He looks around. Against his arm, Eikō sleeps, alternating between sucking on his thumb and gnawing on Michael’s sleeve.
Shortly thereafter, Yoichi bows and thanks the doctor. They decide to take advantage of this moment of respite by returning home in the hopes that Eikō’ll sleep a little longer and let Yoichi catch up on some sleep too.
He puts the kid down for bed (remarkably still sleeping) as Michael leaves the room, looking to answer some emails that he and Yoichi have steadily accumulated in the past few days.
“Mihya,” his husband whispers as he follows him out.
“Yeah.”
He tilts his head. “Sleep with me?”
“I’m not tired. My sleep schedule’s fucked up.”
“So is mine.” He rubs his eyes and reaches for Michael’s hand. “Come on. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.” Yoichi pouts.
In a way, Yoichi makes decision-making very easy: Michael does what his Yoichi wants. So, yeah, he’s not tired, and he still has responsibilities to keep the two of them in their team’s good graces, but he goes to bed with Yoichi—a little sweaty from the balmy morning, incredibly awake, and snuggling his husband who fell asleep at the drop of a hat, in a room covered floor-to-ceiling with ancient Noel Noa memorabilia. (In many ways—some ways—this is ideal, except for the—)
Crying.
Michael cringes. Does it know that crying doesn’t do anything? Yelling and sobbing don’t make help and safety and love magically appear. He clicks his tongue, pulling himself from Yoichi’s iron grip. He slips on a stupid toy as he leaves the room, determined to get it to realize this basic truth.
Grumbling, he follows the source of the ear-piercing wailing to find Issei holding Eikō. (And it’s still screaming.)
“What are you doing here?”
Issei looks up, hand stroking the kid’s back. “Michael! I just forgot some documents at home.” He smiles. “All this commotion’s made a mess of my head.” He eyes his son-in-law. “Did we wake you?”
Michael flattens his hair. “No, Yoi—“ The screaming intensifies, so Michael speaks louder. “Yoichi really needed sleep.”
“Treated like a human teddy bear, huh, Michael?”
He winces. “Why is it still crying?” (It cried. It got someone’s attention. Issei is comforting and doting. It got what it wanted. Why is it still crying?)
“Oh, it could be any number of reasons.”
Michael scowls.
Issei laughs. “Think about it, Michael: Eikō-kun doesn’t have any words to communicate. He just makes noises that we have to figure out.” Issei places his hand against his cheek. “Oh, we’re warm, aren’t we?” He begins shedding his layers of clothing. (Why are there so many? Are babies that bad at thermoregulation?)
It’s still fussing and crying because why would it stop?
Issei, however, checks his watch. “I’ve gotta run back to work.” He puts the baby in Michael’s arms. “Thanks!” He waves, and he’s gone.
Michael blinks. Who keeps leaving him alone with the baby? Who in their right mind, anyway, while the baby is still sniffling and squirming.
“Hey, calm down!” Michael begs, sitting down immediately. “You’re fine! You’re safe! And healthy, I think… Yoichi didn’t say anything, but maybe he was too tired…”
Slowly, Eikō settles. He sits in Michael’s arms, legs dangling to the side, as he stretches and wobbles.
“Stay still!”
Eikō looks at the room around them, hands tucked into his chest. Then, an open window lets in a breeze, and he sneezes. Apparently, it’s so forceful and shocking that, after the jerking movement, the baby goes catatonic.
Shit. Fear in this baby is freezing then sobbing.
Not a second goes by since the sneeze and motionlessness that Eikō starts shrieking, tears and snot flying with powerful thrashing arms that repeatedly hit Michael.
Again, who left him alone with the baby?