Work Text:
Humpty Dumpty Through the Looking Glass
“It’s all right. We’re not going to stay here. We’re going to see the world.”
Leo is delicate. Madara has always known that. It isn’t his size, though that in and of itself is enough to warn Madara to gentleness, or whatever he’s capable of that’s close. At least he isn’t weak. Leo can run fast, jump high, outstrip the track club as easily as Madara can (when he wants to). But there’s always been something breakable behind the shining light in his eyes.
At least, until it breaks.
~
Spring
“Leo-san? Hey, Leo-san!”
Madara’s left ankle throbs with every step, a reminder of a tussle he definitely should not have gotten into, but he doesn’t limp as he jogs forward. It isn’t yet typhoon season, but the skies are open nonetheless, and only one figure standing in front of the market isn’t holding an umbrella. Even soaked, it’s easy to recognize that orange hair, tied carelessly in a ponytail to one side, though now the customary flighty bangs are plastered to that elfishly delicate forehead. Leo doesn’t seem to be moving, just staring at an outdoor display of pears, as if one of them holds the key to eternal life.
Nothing holds that key. Madara would have found it by now.
“Leo-san? Leo-san?”
Leo’s eyes don’t focus. His face turns slowly to face Madara’s but his eyes are blank, numb, shattered. Water and wind pelt both of them, and Madara instinctively shifts to block most of the wind with his body. It’s got to be good for protecting people somehow. “It’s Mama,” he says, loudly to be heard over the wind, thumping his own chest.
A grocery store clerk pulls up the shutters, and crates of pears are ferried into the store, plastic sheets deployed to keep out the wet. Men in dark suits hurry past, each one with a black umbrella. The points of the umbrellas jab into Madara’s shoulders, but he doesn’t move, cheerfully blocking most of the sidewalk. “Leo-san, you remember me, right? From Yumenosaki?”
Leo’s mouth parts. He looks a little less like a statue like that, Madara thinks, and tries to will away the cold feeling in his chest that something is achingly wrong. “It’s Mama,” he says again, and lays his hands on Leo’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “Mikejima Madara? Mikejimama? I only live a couple of streets from you?”
“M...ma....”
Encouraged, Madara puts an arm around Leo’s shoulders. The other boy is shivering, cold to the touch, as if he’s been out in the rough weather for hours, even when Madara knows it’s only been raining a few minutes. “Yeah, you got it. Let’s get you home, huh?”
Leo’s legs move when Madara walks him, but not fast enough, and eventually, Madara just picks him up, throwing him over one shoulder. The extra weight hurts his ankle--that guy had had a bat, maybe going after him alone wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but what would have happened to the poor puppy if he hadn’t?--and he ignores it. Long strides take him to Leo’s street in what feels like far longer than usual, but the lights are off, no car in the driveway. Madara sets Leo down, then steadies him when he stumbles. “Sorry, rough ride. Your folks not home?”
He doesn’t really expect an answer, and doesn’t get one. Heavy cold raindrops slow, then finally stop, leaving them soaked and blinking in the dry. Leo slowly raises a hand, then wrings out his ponytail, letting the water cascade over his already-soaked clothes. “M...Mama,” he says finally, and something clicks in the emptiness behind his eyes. “You’re nice.”
Madara grins, trying to hide how that cold feeling grows. Who the hell could see someone like Leo, a delicate genius, and do something that would shatter that innocence? What right do they have? Did they think they could get away with something like that? Clearly, his own reputation at school needs work, if folks think there’s no one to protect people like Leo. “See, you remember just fine, yeah? So, where’s your folks?”
“...Out.” The word comes a little more easily, and Leo shakes his head, like a dog shaking after an unexpected bath. “Brrrr. Out of town for the weekend, I’m supposed to be...uh...something...somewhere...”
“Coming to my house,” Madara decides, when Leo fumbles for a key, and turns up nothing.
Leo blinks. “Eh?”
“You’re supposed to come to my house, right? Don’t you remember?”
“Uh...am I? Heh...Mikejimama’s house, what’s that even like...? Do my parents know?”
Leo’s connection to reality has always been tenuous. Madara supposes it isn’t surprising that it’s finally snapped. He grabs Leo’s hand, then tugs him down the familiar street, past a familiar playground, cutting through a familiar alley, ducking around familiar parked cars. “Your folks set the whole thing up, right? You’re gonna stay with me, safe and sound, until they come home. Aw, man, we’re going to have so much fun!”
“We are?”
“Yeah, Leo-san!” He feels a shudder go through Leo more than he hears it, and shoots a look over his shoulder as he pulls him along. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t...want to stay here.”
“Eh? Mama’s house isn’t good? You’re not even there yet.”
Leo bites his lip. “I was gonna go. Away.”
Madara doesn’t like the sound of that. That’s a sound broken people make. So he puts on a bigger smile, and tugs harder. “But we’re not staying here, obviously! We’re going to travel. Your folks gave me your passport.”
“...Did I have something like that?”
“Of course! What kind of guy doesn’t have a passport?”
“Oh...I guess that must be right, then? Where are we going?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Egypt,” Leo says immediately, and some of the stormclouds in Madara’s head clear. If Leo still wants things, still can make silly plans, then surely all isn’t yet lost.
“Egypt first, for sure! Then France, and America, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Germany!”
“Yay! Beethoven is in Germany!”
“We’ll meet him!”
“He’s dead!”
“So?”
“Cool!”
I can fix this, Madara thinks fiercely, looking at Leo’s broken, empty eyes light up. I have to. Someone has to. I’m the only one here.
I can figure it out.
~
Winter
“Kanata, you can be the Papa, and I’ll be the Mama. These are our babies.”
The ‘babies’ in question are two broken dolls, a dead cell phone, and a dismembered fish head, sitting in a neat row on the ground. Kanata looks up at him with too-wide eyes, hands clasped together in front of him, looking dislocated and out of place in the land of the living. He wears a simple white robe, a stark contrast to Madara’s rough dark play clothes. “I...have to be...the ‘papa’?” he asks, in his odd, breathy way.
“It’s better that way, right?” Madara asks. Being able to play in the park is exciting. It’s far better than sitting around the house, trying to be unnoticed by his father’s friends. It’s far better than going to Kanata’s house, where they get interrupted by people wailing and exclaiming in ecstasy at weird moments. This, this little house that Madara has marked out with a stick on the ground, with a marked-out square for a futon, and a marked-out area for a kitchen (that will be his domain, that’s where a good Mama lives), this is freedom. “It can be normal,” he says with a smile. “Where the Papa goes to work and the Mama makes food and the babies stop crying when they get fed.”
Kanata looks dubious, but picks up the fish head in what looks like a vaguely cradling position.
Madara beams. “Great, great! Okay, give me baby number three, you have to go to work and come back, so I can say, ‘welcome home, Papa!’ to you.”
“Thanks, I’m home...”
“No, you have to go out first--through the door, I made a mark for the door--“
“Playing house is for babies.”
Sato Kimeki is a few years older than Madara, and bigger in the shoulders. He smiles in a mean way all the time, like he thinks everything he says is funny, and he always has a few friends with him. He stalks up now, and Kanata looks confused, holding out the fish head. “Do you want to ‘play’ with...the ‘baby’?” he asks, doubtfully.
“Get lost, Kimeki,” Madara says loudly, stepping in front of Kanata. Kimeki’s dad is friends with Madara’s dad, something that makes hot anger well up inside him. He isn’t supposed to have to deal with this kind of stuff when he’s playing make-believe.
“Does the baby not want to play with me?” Kimeki sneers, and reaches out a hand, shoving at Madara’s shoulder. He shoves hard, enough to make him step back. His foot gets Kanata in the toe, and he hears a sudden yelp of pain from the other boy.
“Hey! You made him cry!”
Something flashes red behind Madara’s eyes. Most six-year-olds wouldn’t be able to grab a tubby ten-year-old by the shirt and slam him to the ground, probably. The red starts to clear when Kimeki gets up, running away with his friends, yelling something about telling.
I did it! I protected everyone!
Madara feels good about it until he sees Kanata, white robes dirty, clutching his foot, and their ‘babies,’ shattered after being crushed under the fallen Kimeki. Kanata looks up at him, and pulls away when he reaches out. “Be....’careful’ next time...”
If I protected everyone...how come everyone is all messed up?
~
Spring
“C’mon, Leo-san, this way!”
Leo takes his hand, eyes shining a little more today. That’s good. Maybe this is something Madara won’t ruin. He climbs down from the broken-down, rusty old car in the back of Madara’s place, looking around at the familiar area. He’s stayed over every night for the last five nights, long after his parents had returned, grateful to hear that their son is safe, and having a better time than before.
Leo blinks owlishly in the light, rubbing eyes heavy with sleep. “Where are we now?” he asks, as if he hadn’t been taking a nap in a rusted-out car backseat, exactly where he’d gone to nap a dozen times this week.
“France, for sure.” Madara inhales deeply, one arm around Leo, pointing with the other one. “See, look! That’s the Eiffel Tower, definitely!”
“Wow! It looks more like Tokyo Tower than I thought!”
“I know, right? Ah, architecture really is a marvel these days, huh? Here, let’s go to a fancy bakery.”
“Wahaha, Itsuki would love this place!”
“He’s never eaten anything even close to this fancy,” Madara assures him, and takes him by the hand again, leading him down familiar streets, their feet the only sound in the evening calm. Most of the shopkeepers have closed up shop already, but the lengthening days make it seem earlier than it is, as if they’re the only two people left in the country. Madara waves at a nearby man--Fukujima Kenji, who owns a bookstore a few a few blocks down. “Yo, Kenji-san! Your family doing all right?”
“Wow, Mikejimama can speak French so well!”
Kenji smiles, but his eyes are a little wary. “Mikejima-san, good evening. Ah, I already paid this month...”
Madara waves a hand, as if to chase away an annoying bug. “Everything’s fine, everything’s fine. This is my friend, he’s new to the area. Say hello, very slowly!”
“Um...he...llo?”
Leo cocks his head, looking up at Madara. There’s a bit of his old spark in him today, though he shows no signs of being tired of the make believe yet. “It’s almost like I can understand him.”
“That’s the magic of humanity. No matter where you go, people are the same, eh? Here, the finest pastries ever!”
Madara jumps over the low wall surrounding an outdoor patio cafe, ignoring the CLOSED sign in the window. He turns to offer a hand, but Leo jumps over just as easily, sitting at a table as if he’s about to order. Madara pulls a couple of crumpled, store-bought croissants out of a bag in his pocket, setting them on the table, and both of them inhale deeply, making a show of it as Kenji hurries away, casting a look back over his shoulder. What a boring man.
“Ahh, super yummy! We don’t have anything like this in Japan!”
“I know, right? You have to really travel to get this kind of awesome experience.”
Leo bites in, scattering crumbs everywhere, and hums his enjoyment. One note turns to another, then another, and his eyes unfocus, hand going slack as the croissant falls from it. “Pen,” he says, the word muffled as the piece of croissant falls from his mouth.
Madara pats his pockets, but finds nothing. He vaults back over the low wall, immediately in front of a harried-looking salaryman, and blocks the man’s way. “Hi, friend! Loan me a pen?”
People like to loan him things. Maybe it’s because he’s tall, and broad, and rarely provides alternative ideas.
Pen in hand, he presses it into Leo’s hand, then turns his back. “Write on me, Leo-san. I’m a good canvas, ha!”
Going to France is better than going back to his house, anyway, and the lights aren’t on in Leo’s house again. Madara sneaks Leo in the back window when they go back to his house, hoisting him up to the second floor balcony, climbing up himself after. His room is small, but it has a lock on the door, and easily converts into a ryoukan, a suite at the Four Seasons, and a hut in Madagascar, somewhere just the two of them can go. In the darkness, most places look the same, he thinks.
“Mikejimama,” Leo says softly, curled up on his futon next to him, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.
“Hmm?”
“I should probably go home soon.”
Madara doesn’t answer for a minute. He wants to reach out, to gently card his fingers through Leo’s hair, but last time he’d done that he’d hit a snag and ripped a few out. He’d kept them, and they’re still in the pocket of his trousers somewhere, to remind him to watch his goddamn hands. “Whenever you want. The jet goes back to Japan three times a day.”
“I’ve been gone a long time. My suspension...might be up by now.”
Madara pauses. That’s the first he’s heard of a suspension, and he makes a stab of a guess in the dark. “What did that guy have to say about it?”
“Who, Tenshii?”
Nailed it.
“It wasn’t...his fault. It was mine. Sena would say it was his, but....it was mine.” The voice goes quiet in the dark, and Madara feels the duvet shift on top of them. “You should be careful, Mikejimama. I hurt people.”
Madara smiles. It feels like the skin is pulling back from his teeth, stretching so tightly it’ll crack. “Don’t worry, Leo-san. I’m pretty tough. Hurt away.”
“But I don’t want to.”
He hopes he’ll be able to stop smiling soon. “I know you don’t.”
~
Summer
Father is a tall man, though not so tall as Madara. His eyes are a cool black, one of many reasons Madara favors green contacts, and he always dresses soberly, with sleeves long enough to hide any telltale swirls of irezumi, buttoned securely at the wrists and collar. He surveys his home each day before he leaves, the king in his castle, and only occasionally has something to say to Madara, which is the way they both like it.
Today is one of those days.
“Madara. You’re tall enough now. Come on rounds with me.”
Madara does not want to. Playing card games with Honoka, whose hair is long enough to be put in braids just like her big brother’s now, sounds like a lot more fun. He says nothing, but Father can see it, even as he stands. “Come on, boy. Don’t shame me, move your feet.”
He’s fifteen, tall as his father had said, and starting to fill out in the shoulders. He’s big enough to help any little old lady with her groceries, he thinks, but his father thinks he’s big enough to lurk, face impassive, as Father calmly reminds shopkeepers on their street that it’s the third of the month, time for mikameji-ryo. One man scowls at Father, but he pays anyway. Father writes down his name, Oomori Yuusuke, down in a little book.
“They should call it something else,” Madara says softly, hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. They wouldn’t look so bad if they had some flashy accessories, he thinks. Maybe a sash, some cool buckles, shiny boots, all in greens and reds, bright primary colors to offset the gloom.
“Call what something else?”
Madara starts, only realizing then that he’d spoken aloud. “Ah...” He’s no coward. “Shobadai. They should call it something else.”
“What’s wrong with calling it protection money?”
“Well...what are we protecting them from, you know?”
Father doesn’t smile. It’s part of the reason Madara does it so much. His watch glints in the low lighting, but his eyes don’t. “From what they’re most afraid of. From us.”
~
Spring
“I should go home soon.”
Leo says it a lot, but he doesn’t go. Instead, they go to Sweden, four streets over, and Madara invents a Swedish delicacy, some kind of five-times-fermented fish that’s really sushi from the Lawson on the next block. “It’s a hallucinogen,” he tells Leo seriously, and both of them talk about what visions they see for the next three hours.
~
Fall
Madara doesn’t like the way that sick kid looks at Leo.
He’s heard of Tenshouin Eichi, of course. Everyone says he’s angling to be the next student council president, after Rei graduates. Privately, Madara hopes Rei gets held back for another three years.
He’s Vice-Captain of Ryuuseitai, but it doesn’t suit him. He’s the Purple Ranger or whatever, but that doesn’t suit him either. The Captain and his friends remind him too much of Father’s friends, only ‘heroes’ when it suits the narrative, only when it makes them feel good about themselves. Most of the time, they sit around watching TV and complain about how the pleather uniforms chafe.
There’s one nerdy kid in his class that takes the whole thing way too seriously. Madara has a sense, by now, of breakable people, but Morisawa Chiaki confuses it. The kid could go far, he thinks, but every time Madara opens his mouth, Chiaki’s smile dims a little more, because Madara is as careless with his mouth as he is with his hands.
Kanata joins the school, too. His first words to Madara are, “Don’t hug me.”
Madara thinks that’s fair.
~
Winter
Father hands his little leather book to Muneki, one of his enforcers. “Five of them this month,” he says with a sigh.
Muneki nods, pocketing the book. “Saitou’s out sick.”
“Take the boy.”
Oomori Yuusuke hasn’t paid his protection money for January. Muneki doesn’t have to order Madara, just stares at him until he flips over a row of shelves in the man’s little cigarette shop. He’d knocked them over by accident when he was twelve, just four years ago.
Muneki moves on to the last name on the list. Madara pretends to lose his phone, then goes back to help pick up cigarettes. Oomori lets him, but Madara is pretty sure it’s just because he doesn’t want a broken arm.
February 3rd, Oomori pays on time, without complaint. Madara doesn’t look him in the eye.
~
Spring
Leo’s mother looks just like him, but a little shorter, a little heavy in the hips. “He’s eating all right?” she asks, bullying Madara into their little house, shoving a pre-packaged Tokyo Banana at him.
“Yes, Tsukinaga-san, he’s eating,” Madara assures her. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon. You can tell that cute little sister of his that her niichan is coming home safe and sound.”
He sees the girl’s head bob as she runs to her room. Maybe he’d scared her just with that much. Nothing to be done. Some people are just more delicate than others.
But when he returns to his house, and the beat-up old car in its forever home in the backyard, Leo is nowhere to be found. Madara searches the whole house, earning himself an indignant shriek from Honoka and a slap on the head from his mother, but Leo isn’t inside. He’s not in the yard, and Madara’s heart starts to thud as he runs, looking through street after street, calling Leo’s name and not caring who hears.
It gets dark.
He trudges back home, and finds a lined page of paper on his futon, scrawled all over with musical notes, next to the floppy piece of cardboard on which he’d written PASSPORT. Carefully, he looks at the page, turning the notes over in his mind, fingers tapping out the notes on an imaginary piano. He hears the notes in his head, but not the song. If he could hear the song, he could find Leo, for sure, but the notes won’t fit together, not for him.
~
Summer
Madara tries the track team, because his friend Shiro wants to spend more time together. He runs a lot faster than Shiro. The coach loves him, and talks eagerly about a lot of competitions Madara doesn’t care about.
Shiro doesn’t talk to him anymore.
~
Winter
“Honey, I’m...’home’.”
Kanata sets down his “briefcase,” an empty beer can they’d found on the ground nearby, and Madara gives him a huge hug. “I missed you, sweetheart! How was your day at work? I’m making eggs.”
Kanata’s face contorts in pain, and he shoves Madara away. “Mama ‘hugs’ too hard...please be more gentle...”
It isn’t fair. Why can’t everyone else be stronger?
~
Summer
Sometimes when Tenshouin Eichi talks, Madara remembers the crunch it makes when his fist connects with someone’s nose.
~
Spring
On the fourth day of looking, Madara walks to the Tsukinaga home with dragging feet, ready to tell that nice lady with the Tokyo Banana that he’s lost her son.
Leo answers the door.
“Meep!” He says, though maybe that’s because Madara sweeps him off his feet, strong arms around him. “M-Mama, Mikejimama, you’re too strong!”
“You scared me,” Madara says, surprised to find his voice wet. The light is back in Leo’s eyes when he pulls away, but there’s still something off in them, something not quite back-together. “Where’d you go?”
Leo shrugs, and looks down at the ground. “Some stuff happened. It was really wild for a month or two. Hey...Mikejimama...”
Madara tenses, ready for the explanation that he shouldn’t come around anymore.
“You wanna come in for a minute? Ruka-tan’s at school and I wanna play someone my new song.”
Madara wants to stay forever, in Leo’s startlingly normal room, with posters from Star Wars on the walls, listening to Leo plunk out new songs on his little lap keyboard. “Sena usually does my lyrics, but he probably wants me dead,” Leo says frankly, “so it doesn’t have words. But you get what it’s about.”
Madara hears the music go up in a scale, and can count every chromatic note. He can tell it’s in F Major, and that it modulates once, and that it’s in 4/4 time.
But for the life of him, he can’t tell what words Sena Izumi would have written to go with the melody.
“Did you have a good time with that guy, Leo-san?” he asks, as gently as possible.
For the first time when talking about someone at Yumenosaki, Leo smiles softly, hands still plunking out the notes. “They let me die for them. I think that was good.”
Outside Leo’s room, Madara hears the front door open, and his father calls, “I’m home!”
“Welcome home, dear,” Leo’s mother says, and Madara’s heart constricts so tightly it hurts.
~
Winter
Madara stops collecting protection money. Muneki jerks a chin at him to come, and he just sits there, until the other man shrugs and goes by himself.
He can’t stop thinking about that Chiaki kid, standing up to all of their seniors even when he’d gotten totally trampled. Madara had taken care of it, of course. Then he’d lost his temper at the kid.
“Can’t you even take care of yourself this much, if you’re a hero of justice?”
They’re the same age, he guesses, but even when he was as small as Chiaki, he’d never gone running into fights he couldn’t win. He doesn’t remember any fights he can’t win, really.
Though that doesn’t explain why Kanata had run right to Chiaki after Madara had driven those bastards away, and told that dumb kid that he was the bravest thing ever.
“I’m not taking the money anymore,” he tells Father dully, when the man pours himself a hot glass of shouchu.
“Why not?”
Madara stares at the wall, and thinks about eggplants, and his stupid jacket. “Because people don’t want to be protected.”
~
Fall
There are some incredible guys at Yumenosaki. Madara breathes the air, and feels the stench of it inside him, the certainty that he’s not the strangest one around. He notices it on the track team, when he runs at half his normal speed, but a first-year with glasses and bleached hair folds his arms, and tells him, “You’re going to set a bad example for the children, Mama!”
It’s better than any game of House has ever been, not that Madara will tell Arashi that. Maybe it’s a little too accurate to family life, since he has no idea why he’s being scolded.
It’s his second year, and slowly, Madara loses his fear of being the weirdest one at even this school. He’d been far more wary of picking up an instrument and playing it perfectly after Sakuma Rei had done the same thing, then thrown him a wink. He’d found Itsuki Shu practicing until late into the night one night, long after his small blond friend had gone home, and his breath had gone cold, watching talent he could hardly understand, much less replicate. He’d heard Kanata sing, and had to sit down, lest he be summoned by that siren song with the rest of the sea creatures. He’d seen Hibiki Wataru pull human beings out of thin air, then put them back, transforming his own hair to flowers, and hadn’t been able to find the trick. He’d seen that little red-haired kid dance until shimmering lights ascended from his feet, and believed in magic like he’d never believed in Santa-san.
~
Winter
Father starts asking about the families of his friends at Yumenosaki--are they well-connected? What do their fathers do for a living?
Madara looks at pamphlets for studying abroad.
~
Spring
The next time Leo sees him, he doesn’t know who Madara is. Some broken things can’t be seamlessly fixed after all.
~
Summer
The first time Madara sees Eichi after he returns from overseas, he’s suddenly glad they whisper about him, calling him a fearsome beast. The rumors say he was sent overseas because he was too frightening for Tenshouin to deal with, the way he’d “dealt with” all the other fierce, talented students.
Yumenosaki feels barren without Hibiki popping up behind every corner. He’s a kept pet now, and only startles on the Emperor’s orders. Sakuma Rei sleeps in his coffin, a dormant threat. Kanata is Vice-Captain, a better one than Madara had ever been, a perfect support system with no ambition. Itsuki talks with a doll, when he bothers attending, and faints in the hallways. The little red-haired kid slaps his senpai around, then grabs the hem of his jacket, terrified of being abandoned.
Leo was never one of Eichi’s rumored monsters. Eichi laughs, and says that Leo was his favorite toy.
He doesn’t laugh when Madara grabs him by the collar and shoves him into a wall. He bares his teeth, and it only kind of looks like a smile. “Stay away from Leo,” he says, hoping it sounds friendly, because he knows from Father that the scariest enemies are the ones who act calm.
He catches a glimpse of Sena out of the corner of his eye, hands white-knuckled on the strap of his bag. Later, after Tenshouin scampers away with threats of the police on his lips, Madara turns to Izumi. “You think I shouldn’t have done that?”
Izumi shakes his head. “You should do it to me, too.”
“What did you do to Leo?”
Izumi scuffs his foot against the tile floor, and his eyes look like stormclouds. “Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
Storms crash into each other in Izumi’s eyes. “Fuck Mozart. Tell him that for me.”
~
Spring
“Mozart wrote a song called Lick Me In The Ass, you know.”
Madara stares at the orange-haired kid suddenly sitting next to him. “I--he what?” he asks, hand paused in midair, a chip halfway to his mouth.
“Mozart. Wrote a song. Called Lick Me In The Ass.” The kid scrunches up his face, then admits, “Well, I guess it was called Leck mich im Arsch. They changed the lyrics after he died. Some lame stuff about how we should have fun and be glad and quit complaining. Isn’t that awful?”
“Uh...yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s a shame. It was the one song he ever wrote that was just for him, and all the lyrics are just shouting, faster, faster! Lick me faster!”
The chip goes back in the bag. Madara feels himself grinning. “What’s your name?”
“Tsukinaga Leo.” The boy takes the chip Madara had plunked back into the bag, and eats it. There’s something in his eyes, like a stained glass window, a hidden picture that only appears when the beholder is close. “I’m a famous genius composer. Well. Not famous yet. But I will be.”
“Leo-san, then? I’m Mikejima Madara.”
Leo smiles in return, and eats another of Madara’s chips. “Mikejimama.”
“Wh--“
“That’s what it sounds like, right? And you have a Mama-like feel to you.”
Something old and nostalgic tugs at Madara’s chest, and he nods slowly. Then, suddenly, he blinks. “We grew up together, right?”
Leo laughs, a wild sound that echoes through the cafeteria. “You remember! Wahaha, I thought you’d forgotten me forever! Mikejimama, let’s walk home together, with Sena!”
Madara learns who Sena is on the way home, and a lot about a unit called Backgammon. He sort of wants to join it.
Leo’s house is the first one they reach, and he runs inside. “Where’s your house, Izumi-san?” he asks, but Izumi just shoulders his bag higher.
“That way,” he says, pointing.
“Eh? The other direction?”
Izumi shrugs. “Couldn’t let that idiot go home alone. He’d wind up in a ditch somewhere.”
Madara’s chest thrums with warmth. “You...really want to take care of him, huh?”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
“Yeah? And who takes care of Izumi-san?”
Izumi shrugs again, looking uncomfortable, and doesn’t answer.
~
Fall
“Do you know how stained glass is made, Mikejimama?”
Madara crouches down next to Leo where he’s lying on the floor of the Knights music room. He still speaks softly around Leo, still invites him on trips around the world whenever that light looks like it’s fading from his eyes. “No idea. They paint it?”
“All the colors are different pieces,” Leo says, sketching on the floor with markers. Madara tries to add notes sometimes, but whenever he comes back, Leo’s scratched those extra notes out, picking them easily even if they’d written in the exact same marker. “They all get dyed separately.”
“So?”
Leo adds a flourish, then looks up, and his eyes blaze so intently they nearly glow. “So if the glass never broke, there’d be no picture. Stop being so careful around me, Mikejimama. I get to decide when I’m broken, not you.”
Madara looks it up, later. Stained glass is made from careful, cut pieces, never broken shards.
~
Winter
There’s a cat in trouble. Madara is dumb when it comes to animals, but he’s good at being scary muscle. He hands out masks to Keito and his friend, and pretends like they’re all fighting together.
The dumb punks who think they own Archery Club go down one after the other, each one from a strike of Madara’s hands. Keito rips off his mask, and grins a wolfish smile. “We did it!”
~
Spring
Chiaki deflates whenever he talks. Kanata scowls at him. The new kids in Ryuuseitai have no idea who he is.
Madara starts a solo unit, which is good, because no one applies to join.
~
Winter
“Leo! Leo-chan! Leo-chan, Mama’s looking for you!”
Madara hears the woman’s voice, and shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. It’s cold, with a bitter wind ripping through his hair. The baby at home won’t stop crying, and Father and Mother are fighting again. He wanders towards Kanata’s house, but the weird blue light is on, and he can see dancing through the window, and Kanata sitting motionless in seiza in the center, dancers weaving all around him. He walks past the house that cute little girl lives in, but the curtains are closed, light shining from beneath them. All around, he can smell dinners being prepared by normal, happy families.
“Leo-chan, where are you hiding? When I get my hands on you...”
There’s a flash of movement, and Madara stops, blinking. It comes again, and he turns the corner, catching sight of something moving in his own backyard. He climbs the fence--it’s easy now that he’s seven, and a lot taller than he used to be--and hops up into the rusted-out old car in his backyard. The seats are rotted out, spiderwebs infest every surface, and the remainder of a dozen small animal meals litter the floor. There, curled up in a sweater much too large for him, is a little boy. His hair is long and kind of wild, but his eyes are sort of...sparkly. That’s the only word Madara can think of. “Uh, hi?”
The boy cocks his head at him. “Hi? Is this your magic car?”
Madara decides right away that this is indeed his magic car. “Yep,” he agrees, and climbs into the driver’s seat, hunching down so they aren’t seen. “Where’s she taking us now?”
“China!”
“Ooh, let’s look at the pandas!”
“I want to see the dragons!”
Madara nearly tells him that there aren’t any dragons, but even he knows the sound of a house rule when he hears it. “Sure, let’s see dragons. Mmm...smell the dumplings?”
The boy’s nose crinkles up. He’s got freckles. Madara’s always liked freckles. “Yum! Ahh, now I’m hungry.” He grins, and butts his head against Madara’s shoulder. “I’m Leo.”
“I’m Mikejima Madara. You can call me Mama,” he says recklessly, and gives the other boy a hug, pulling back immediately as if he’s been burned. “Sorry, I...”
Leo beams. “Mikejimama, you’re Mikejimama!”
Madara’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“Duh! You’re Mikejimama!” He opens the door to the car, and takes a deep breath. “I’m normal at home, but I’m gonna come over again, okay?”
Madara nods dumbly.
“Bye!”
The next day, Madara takes some of his mother’s scrap fabric and a big bucket of soapy water out to the car. It can’t be magic if it’s gross.
And when Leo comes again, Madara watches his eyes light up at the sight of new fabric stretched over the seats. They go to New York City, and pretend to eat hot dogs until they’re stuffed, and Madara’s parents have stopped fighting.
Privately, he thinks the boy called Leo is a lot more magic than that car.
~
Fall
“Take care of him, yeah?”
Izumi looks blank, and Madara grinds his teeth. “I tried,” he explains. “But I always mess it up. I’m not careful with him. You are.”
Izumi tries to back away. “No, I can’t, it’s all my fault--“
“Someone’s got to do it, right?”
Izumi swallows, and nods.
He doesn’t do it right, of course. But Madara does it worse, and Leo still smiles when Izumi messes up, so maybe Madara is right after all.
Even if stained glass isn’t made from broken glass, surely those pieces still mean something.