Work Text:
The kid was skittish and detached at first, like an apathetic deer had accidentally moseyed itself into Leblanc. A deer that brought along a frustrating amount of guitars and a blank, unreadable stare. Wonderful.
Truthfully, Sojiro wasn't too pleased when the kid dragged them in, didn't stand to help as he struggled around the door. The kid should get used to struggle early, he thinks. He wasn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart, he had to remind himself.
Eventually, when the guitars finally sat primly on the floor of Leblanc with an awkward boy in tow, the kid glanced up at him. There for a second and then it was gone, followed by a muttered ‘hello.’ The quiet, barely-there greeting that fell from the kid’s lips was nothing short of plain. Carefully crafted to be as soft and nonthreatening as possible. Molded to be forgettable.
It fell flat for Sojiro. He's far too practiced at remembering.
Once he helped the kid get settled, Sojiro departed with offhanded reminders of the kid's situation and resumed tending to the empty café. Faintly, he could hear tiny thuds on the attic floor and soft swishing sounds but he wasn't concerned. The kid was likely trying—emphasis on trying —to clean up that unholy mess of an attic. It was for the best; Sojiro was plenty confident that amount of dust wasn't healthy to be breathing in all the time.
But he didn't care; he couldn't care. The kid was a delinquent, his parents had told Sojiro as much with poorly masked disdain. They'd tried their best, they had said, but he had been unresponsive for too long. He needed someone to whip him back into shape, and if tough love was the way to do it, Sojiro would use it.
It wasn't until he had mocked up closing the store, curious to see just how much of a troublemaker this kid was, that something began changing his mind.
Soft, at first. The guitar. Plucked gingerly, unsure and hesitant. It filtered through the empty, silent café like a gentle fall breeze, chilling Sojiro and sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. Something about one lone guitar cutting through the silence was unnatural. Unearthly and downright creepy, if he was going to be honest.
After a while, it seemed to catch its stride; the notes strung together more fluidly, louder and more confident. And it was then that he heard the kid sing .
Sojiro has been stunned speechless only a few times in his life, mostly at Wakaba’s hand. It was damn hard to surprise him anymore, and yet the kid found a way. With words that broke and lyrics of being tossed away, with a somber and gutwrenching crack in his voice, the kid sang.
Something, something , was layered into that melody. Sojiro couldn't quite place it. Sad didn't quite cover it—this sounded like a dying song, a magnum opus before someone kicks the bucket—
Ah.
It was almost instinctive, climbing those stairs to the attic. Sojiro doesn't remember making a conscious decision to do it; honestly, it would have been better if he hadn't. He was supposed to be a tough, by-the-books guardian and keep the boy in line. Nowhere in that job description did it list emotional support as a requirement.
Seeing tears staining the kid’s cheeks as he strummed at his guitar, seeing slumped and defeated shoulders, changed Sojiro's mind.
It took a few moments for the kid to notice his presence, and when he did, Sojiro felt a little guilty for how far he jumped out of his skin. The melancholy guitar cut off abruptly, leaving one uncomfortably high, off-pitch note hanging in the air. Hands froze over the strings and wide, almost terrified grey eyes stared back at him.
Sojiro had to say something to ease the tension. “Don't have to stop on my account,” he said simply. And it was true—much as Sojiro felt sting of dread when the kid wandered into the café lugging guitars behind him, a part of him begged him to go on.
For a moment, the kid stared. It didn't take long, though, for his expression to shift from surprise to carefully neutral, didn't take long for distrust to settle in his stare. A stare that quickly found a home in the floor. “I didn't mean to bother you. Sorry.” The robotic, colorless tone didn't suit a voice that could sing notes of sorrow with such ease. A shame, honestly.
“You weren't bothering me at all,” Sojiro replied, trying his best to convey sincerity. “Honestly, I originally stuck around to make sure you wouldn't tear the store apart.”
A beat of silence, then: “I won't."
Sojiro understood that now , at least. When the kid’s parents said ‘delinquent’ they had really just meant ‘unconventional.’ They wrote off someone who Sojiro was confident wouldn't hurt anyone out of malice or spite for just being different . They gave up on someone who had a wonderful talent to share with the world, a voice that could sing and hands that wove notes of heart wrenching music from strings.
He could tell the kid tried to brush it off.
He could tell the kid couldn't.
Under impassivity hung weariness and hurt that crushed Sojiro’s heart. Something in the kid reminded him of Futaba, tired and abandoned in a place that didn't care for her. No one to look after her. No one to care.
Sojiro decided, then.
“Let's go reheat some curry,” Sojiro said, biting back a wince as the kid spooked again. “I think I should try to talk to you before I peg you as the foolish, well-intentioned delinquent.”
An honest confusion flitted across the kid’s face, cracking his blank, empty mask. “Why?” He asked, fingers white-knuckled where they clenched at his guitar, shoulders shuddering ever-so-slightly as he tried to remain strong.
The kid was scared. Of what, Sojiro could only hazard a guess.
Perhaps of him—the kid was thrust into the hands of a complete stranger after all. It would only be natural to be wary, distrustful, perhaps even scared.
Sojiro didn't feel that was quite right. The kid hadn't shown any signs of fear when he acted out the part of a tough, harsh guardian. Didn't flinch when Sojiro’s tone had an undercurrent of disdain or his words far from kind. The kid had stood there, back straight and face carefully, carefully blank.
Was the kid afraid of Sojiro being… kind, then?
“I think enough people have written you off for a lifetime.”
It had taken weeks to get the kid—Akira, he reminded himself with a cold, biting fury that the parents had told him the wrong name —to stop skittering around the shop nervously. At first, it was a sort of game; bribe the boy with food, and he'll stick around. (Sojiro thanks his lucky stars Akira seemed to really, really like curry, given how he wolfed it down every Tim it sat before him. That, or the boy was very, very hungry. Sojiro liked to think it was the former; the latter didn't sit well with him at all.)
Gradually, Sojiro would speak with him. Small talk, initially. Any attempt at deep conversation was met with silence and hasty, almost comical retreat. Frustrating, to say the least.
Though, as he was quick to find sometime during week three, if he wanted to hear Akira talk he needed only to bring up music theory.
It startled him, honestly. A brief question that he hadn't expected an answer to (‘ Was that song you played in E? Sounded nice. ’) launched Akira into a prattling explanation that lasted several long minutes. Nice though, hearing him say more than a few words at a time, even if they were all nonsense to Sojiro. (The answer was no. ‘ The base is A minor with an added seventh. ’ Whatever that means, anyways.)
Eventually though, he'd gotten the kid to open up a bit more; about how he started playing music, about how he was really feeling, about his home life… Sojiro was getting some answers.
He wished the same could be said for Futaba. Guilt plagued him the more he absently wished the situation had been reversed, as he found himself longing for it to be Futaba that was opening up to him, and not someone else’s kid.
Every time he found himself thinking that, every time he caught the thought as it passed, he mentally kicked himself. Both of them had been written off and thrown away, and he'd be damned if he'd do it to either of them. And frankly, both of them were his kids now if he had anything to say about it—after everything he's heard, even in bits, Sojiro was loath to ever send Akira home again.
Still, every time he passed Futaba's ever shut door, he found himself longing. Hoping. Waiting for the day she'd come to speak as freely with him as Akira did.
He had to squash down the cynical, nauseating thoughts reminding him there was a very real chance she never would. That one day, the house would be completely and utterly still. That one day, he'd wake to only one kid left to care for.
That one day, Futaba would follow in her mother’s footsteps.
That one day, he prayed, would never come.