Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

This is the story of how I die. Don’t worry, I don’t stay down for long. I promise this is actually a very fun story. And the truth is, it isn’t even mine. This is the story of a boy named Tobio. And it starts with the moon.

Now, once upon a time, a single drop of moonshine fell from the night-sky. And from this drop of moon grew a magic, silver flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured. And that made it dangerous – but I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Centuries pass and a new kingdom grows, a mere boat ride away from the magic, silver flower. The land – aptly named Getsumei ; or “moonlight” – is bright and prosperous, ruled by a beloved King and Queen. But unlike the nation, their leaders are subjected to misfortune. See, the Queen is about to have a baby. A young boy celebrated even sooner than he is welcomed into the world. But before she can deliver him, she suddenly falls ill. 

And that’s usually when people start to look for a miracle. Or, in this case, a magic, silver flower. 

Guards, friends, and subjects alike go out to search for the plant and its powers, all vowing to bring it to their Queen. 

All, except for one. 

Ah, speak of the devil. Here she is, one of the most important players in this story entering the scene. Remember how I  told you its powers made the flower dangerous? That woman is the perfect person to demonstrate why that is. 

You see, instead of sharing the moon’s gift, this woman – Mother Gothel – decided to hog its powers for herself. She hid it between rows and rows of flowers, free to use it for hundreds of years. All she had to do was sing a special song, and the magic would keep her young. 

I’m sure you can imagine she isn’t too happy when others suddenly come looking for her treasure. But she is a mere peasant, a witch, at most. She is not well-suited for battle, and knows better than to walk into a fight she will not win. And so, she lets the moonshine go. 

I’m kidding, of course. 

This story wouldn’t be half as intriguing if Mother Gothel knew when to quit. Yet still, guards rip the flower from its safe place in the ground and feed it to their ruler. 

It works. The magic silver flower heals the Queen. And not long thereafter, a healthy baby boy – a prince with shiny black hair – is born. Let me give you a hint. 

That’s Tobio. The boy whose story you’re reading. 

To celebrate the child’s birth, the King and Queen launch a flying lantern into the sky, just when the moon is at its highest. The people cheer, the rulers croon, and the baby boy is safe in their arms. 

Until suddenly, he isn’t. 

Do you see her? There, creeping by the window until the child is put to rest? Mother Gothel – nearly aged beyond recognition – comes closer, and closer, and closer, but sweet Tobio merely sleeps. 

“Flower, gleam and glow,”

The woman calls out, the baby’s hair glows silver. Gothel can feel the ticks of time rewind deep within her – I would know, I did have the power used on me before, after all. A wicked smile blooms over the witch’s face as she grabs the shears from behind her back. 

“ let your powers shine.”

She steps closer to the sleeping child, and feels the power surge through her. It’s working. The magic coursing through Tobio’s veins is strong. Stronger even than it had been, firmly planted in the soil. Almost as if the child breathed life into the very moonshine in its core. 

“Make the clock reverse,”

Wrinkly fingers thread through the silvery-black strands of hair. The shears snap. And suddenly the darkness of night returns to the small crib. 

“No!” Mother Gothel hisses as she claws at the black strand of hair – dull without the light it held before. 

Once more she sings. This time, Tobio wakes. He looks up at her with big, blue eyes, almost as if questioning what she’s doing. She does not explain. Instead, she chants, she threads her finger through his hair, and she cuts. 

Again, she ages – reverting back to her original state when the song is incomplete. 

“No, no, no!” she hisses again. 

It is perhaps a little too loud, the way she complains. It might even be what compels her to do what she does next. Footsteps fall, heavy and quick. But before anyone even realizes what has just transpired in the moonlit room, it is left empty. 

No woman. No child. Only the chilly wind breezing in through the open window. 

The guards sound the alarm. A search party goes out. Days turn into weeks and those weeks turn into months. But alas, the child is never found. Because somewhere, deep in the forest, Gothel raises him as her own. Though he will always be remembered as one, the boy is a prince no longer; he is a prisoner instead. Locked in a tower far away from home with nothing but his captor and his songs to keep him company. 

The people weep as the King and Queen keep celebrating their son’s life; time after time. See, every single year, without fail, they light a lantern to send into the sky. Just when the moon is at its highest. In hope that one day, the light will guide their wayward child back home. And while that very first year theirs was the only lantern lit, now all the people of the kingdom launch their own searchlight into the sky; relighting a path for their prince to follow. 

It has become a festival, of sorts. A way to remember a life that no one quite believes is lost. The name of that festival, you ask? Why, that would be Toro Nagashi –“floating lanterns”. It is held on the same day every single year. 

The day prince Kageyama Tobio was born. 

This year appears to be no exception when – come December 22nd – Tobio spots the first inklings of light. It is a cold day, colder than most in their fair land, and dark too. After all, darkness rules in the days surrounding the winter solstice. 

What the boy doesn’t know, however, is that it has become darker ever since he was born. Almost like the stoney island knew, somehow, that its prince’s future would be bleak. As if the land itself grew to accommodate his life as such. 

In truth, the sun does not shine as brightly as it once did; overpowered by the moon and its vengeance. After all, a part of the crescent’s very core was taken; a tiny drop of moonshine, grown into a man not quite as tiny as before. 

I should warn you, over the following events I have no influence; I am merely a messenger, after all. Now, let’s watch the story run its course, shall we?

There he sits, on the edge of the windowsill looking out across the land. Gothel sits behind him, carefully brushing through yards and yards of hair – grown steadily for the past seventeen years of the boy’s life, not in the smallest part enhanced by the magic whirling through the locks. 

Tobio looks out the window wistfully. “Mother,” he sighs and Gothel’s hand halts, “why can’t I go outside?”

Suddenly, the brush is no longer still. Instead, the wooden bristles yank through the locks of hair harshly, making Tobio wince. 

“Don’t be foolish, dear,” the woman tuts, “the outside world is a dangerous place for boys like you.”

Tobio bites his lip. He should stay quiet. He knows this – has been forced to learn after years of trial and error that resulted in a searing pain atop his scalp. Yet still, he wonders. 

“Boys like me?” he whispers. 

His mother brings the brush down firmly again, and once more, he winces. Tobio knows better than to make a louder noise. After all, mother always knows best. 

The woman opens her mouth to speak but clicks her tongue instead. It startles Tobio enough for her to be able to slither an arm around his neck, forcing him to turn around. He doesn’t utter a word, waits for her to speak instead. 

“Boys like you,” Gothel whispers, “boys with silky hair and silkier skin,” she trails her icy fingers over his cheek, Tobio can’t help but warm slightly at the touch, “my dearest Tobio,” she sighs, “you’re pretty, don’t you know?”

Her grip slackens enough for the boy to crane his head, just so he can peer into the shards of glass that serve as his mirror. Deep blue eyes stare back at him. He supposes he isn’t ugly, per se. His skin is fair – milky white with the lack of sun, just the way his mother likes – and his hair shines brighter than the moon, as if it truly is made of magic-infused silk. But it’s not like he has anyone to compare his beauty to, no one except–

A sharp jut to his chin jolts him from his reverie, “Tobio,” his mother urges.

He knows it’s best to nod, and so he does, “yes mother,” he whispers, “how could I not when I take after you?”

Over the years Tobio has found out just what to say to make his mother squeal in approval. It isn’t hard when she is all that keeps him company in this tower, when she is all he has to converse with. He figured out long ago that it’s best to tell her what she wants to hear. And once again, his instincts prove to be right. 

He watches as a smile blooms over his mother’s face, “my sweet boy,” she says. She twiddles with his hair affectionately, way softer than the way she yanked the brush through it before, before continuing. “You’re magic, Tobio,” she adds, “my miracle boy.”

Tobio nods again, “thank you, mother,” he says. 

He can’t really remember what he is, exactly. But if he truly is his mother’s miracle boy, why does she keep him all to herself? Why does she hit him when he replies with anything other than “yes, mother”? Why does her gaze grow cold when he stops pretending not to have the ability to think for himself?

Tobio can’t really remember the way he was when he was born; only what he is supposed to be. Only that it isn’t something he likes. Still, he can’t seem to shake that predetermined shell his mother pushes him into. He can’t seem to rid himself of the heavy coat that hangs over his shoulders, or the crown that glistens atop his silver-glowing head. 

“You’re my miracle, Tobio,” she reiterates. 

The puzzle of her words slowly completes itself. Tobio is disappointed to see that it shows him the thing it always does, no matter how hard he tries to rearrange the pieces. 

He’s hers. Her miracle, her son, her drop of moonshine, her personal treasure. Hers. 

A bony hand lifts his cheeks. Tobio didn’t realize he’d even let them fall. “Now, come on, pumpkin. Don’t look so gloomy,” Gothel says, “that frown will carve itself into your skin if you keep looking at me like that.”

Tobio gulps. Of course. Wrinkles. He can’t have his face stained by such a thing – even though no one ever sees it, anyway. Still, he complies. His face softens. “I’m sorry, mother,” he says. 

Gothel picks the brush up again, “don’t be silly, dear,” she says, “no need to be sorry when you don’t know any better. You’ll let me teach you to be better, won’t you, my flower?”

Tobio nods again. He can now that the hard, wooden bristles of the brush aren’t attached to his head. “Yes, mother,” he parrots. 

She tuts at him again, apparently still in her head, when he hears her mutter, “boys like you have to stay where it’s safe.” He swallows his retort down. It isn’t his place to talk back, after all. His mother doesn’t give him much time to do so, anyway. 

“Now close your eyes for me, Tobio,” she says. There’s a certain finality to her voice. Something Tobio has heard enough to fear. Though he doesn’t think he’d disobey even if her words weren’t laced with venom. 

He lets his heavy lids drop, slowly. Just so he can have one last glance at the lanterns shining in the distance. Perhaps next year, he’ll get the chance to see them. 

୭

The days slowly turn warmer, but once they do, Tobio is elated. 

He didn’t particularly like summer when he was young; the days were too long for him to whisk away and too blisteringly hot to have a good night’s rest. But this year is different, he feels. Not in the least part thanks to–

“Tobio, dear?”

The boy whips his head towards his mother’s calling, hair swooshing heavily over his shoulder. He already knows what she wants to discuss – has been vibrating with excitement for days now. Yet still, he’s careful. “Yes, mother?” he says. 

“Come here, would you?” she answers. Her voice has been gravelly lately, raspy sounds that seem to scrape her throat with every passing. He knows what caused the gradual change – how could he not when he is the one that’s been interrupting her night-time songs?

Tobio doesn’t want to see his mother wither with age, but he can’t help it, really. The past days have been so exciting for him he could hardly sit still. Eventually, his mother just gave up. Though he knows it won’t be long until she threads her fingers through his hair again, with more force, no doubt. 

He should humor her before that time comes, he thinks. 

So he rushes over to his mother, nearly tripping over his stray books in his hurry. He watches her smile when he comes into view. It isn’t one he sees very often; toothy yes, but not the dashing white he knows; it is a yellowish color now, almost rotten. He represses the urge to shudder upon his mother’s appearance – he knows better than to anger her when her patience is already worn thin. 

“You called, mother?” he says instead.

She holds her hands out shakily, bony fingers illuminated by the harsh lights of midday. Tobio already knows what is being asked of him, has complied with it for however long he can remember. So he crouches down beneath her and places his head under her mercy. Gothel starts stroking the soft darkness of his hair immediately. 

Before long, the room is doused in silver instead of gold. 

“Flower, gleam and glow,” 

He’s heard the words sung so often, perhaps moreso than he’s heard his own name. Still, he can’t quite grasp the tingling sensation that rushes up his spine whenever his mother utters them. He isn’t yet accommodated to the feeling of power that courses through his veins or the silvery fog that rolls over his mind in response to the call.

“let your powers shine.”

Tobio is faintly aware of the softening of the hands against his neck, still threading through the finer hairs there. He knows it’s working. He didn’t doubt it would. 

“Make the clock reverse,”

He hears himself sing along, though he isn’t sure when he started. He assumes that he’s been at it for a while, as he feels the fog clear slowly. That always seems to happen when he says the words of power himself – it makes him sharp instead of dulling his senses. 

“Bring back what once was mine.”

They’re half-way through the incantation now. Tobio can feel it. But he also knows that his mother will stop before it is complete. See, he’s never actually heard the rest of the song. But something deep, deep inside him tells him that it’s there. He wonders what would happen once he actually utters the words. 

“What once, was mine.”

He sighs contentedly – he always does when his mother stops singing. It fills him with a sense of accomplishment, a sense of calm, a sense of stability, a sense of warmth. Almost as if something in him clicks into place the moment his power stops flowing.  

He turns his head and blinks up at his mother, young once more. She slowly brings her finger to his cheek, circles the skin there to tell him “good job” before dropping her hand back down again. 

“Thank you, my flower,” she says, “now do you remember what we talked about last week?”

Ah. Last week’s talk, also known as the reason Tobio has been unable to keep his excitement contained for the past few days. Because for the first time in – forever, really – he has the place to himself. 

Well, sort of. But he hasn’t told his mother about the reptilian friend he’s made yet, and he’s not sure he ever will. 

“Yes, mother,” he says instead, “you will be leaving for Miyagi so you can gather the good wool.”

She nods at him, “yes, very good,” she says before her gaze hardens a little. Tobio tries not to wince at the sharp sensation of her nails digging into his skin as he waits for her to finish. 

“And?” she says. Tobio suddenly has the urge to curl in on himself in an attempt to keep out the iciness of his mother’s voice. 

He gulps, “no going outside when you’re gone,” he says. 

Gothel’s tone is as sharp as her nails when she continues, “because?”

“Because the outside world is dangerous for boys like me,” he adds, copied directly from the speech his mother has given him until it became part of his soul. 

She nods at him before removing her talons from his face. Tobio can’t stop a soft sigh from leaving his lips, though it doesn’t matter much now that his mother has gotten what she was after. 

“That’s right, dear,” she says, “we can’t have some ruffian cut off your beautiful hair, now can we?”

Tobio swallows thickly. Of course the hair is all she cares about, he should have known. But his response is pavlovian – carved deep into his brain, into his very being, even. 

“No, mother,” he says. 

It seems to please her, his obedience. She reaches for a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind Tobio’s ear. The gesture is almost motherly, he thinks. Except for, of course, the glaring fact that it’s his locks Gothel smiles at. It’s the dark, silky crown she threads her finger through affectionately. It’s the hair she loves. 

It is never truly him. 

For years he’s been hoping it’d be different. He used to sit by the windowsill at night, eyes closed and hands raised before him, and he’d pray. He’d voice all his deepest desires, all his greatest wishes. He’d sit there, illuminated by the stars, and he’d talk of the travels he wanted to embark on, the places he would visit. He thought about the people he would meet and the songs that they’d sing. He would speak it out into the open, hoping someone would listen. 

Somehow; when he looked out into the dark, night sky, moon planted firmly in the middle like a beacon, he had the feeling someone did. 

He thought about a lot, those days. He spoke of dreams so grand they seemed laughable at times – who was he, exactly, to have hopes so big? But when doubt crept in, he would remind himself; why not? When he had all the time in the world, wasting away in a tower he didn’t even know how high; why not think of a better place?

But that was just it, hitting the nail right on its head. 

Because the thing he begged for most was that this tower, this home that he knew, would be his someplace better. That his mother, with all her flaws, would one day tell him she loved him, and that she would mean it. 

It was idle hope for an idle boy.

Over the years he’s come to the realization that those prayers are nothing but imaginary things he holds onto; fantastical thoughts that could never truly become reality. Not for a boy like him.

His mother’s voice jolts him from his reverie. “I brought you new paints to experiment with while I’m gone,” she says. Her voice should not sound as soft as it does. It has no right to glide right into Tobio’s brain, smooth like honey. And yet her words trap him in a sticky contraption he sees no way out of. 

Excitement swirls through his chest, hope, his traitorous brain supplies. 

He looks up at his mother with unadulterated gratitude, “thank you, mother” he says quickly, almost greedily. It makes her smile. And for a second, only a second, the tower feels a little warmer. It is a strange kind of comfort, but it is comfort nonetheless. 

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it?

No matter how much Tobio wants to loathe his mother; regardless of the fear that tightens his throat or the dread that washes over him when he sees her waving her brush; despite the overwhelming urge to run far, far away, where she will never find him. 

He can’t. 

His feet are stuck to the ground, his body frozen in place, his mind an undiluted contradiction. 

Because she is there , isn’t she?

She’s there to thread her fingers through his hair in comfortable silence when the dark overwhelms him. She’s there to kiss his bruises better when he inevitably falls off steps he precariously crafted himself, just so he could reach the corner of the wall that hadn’t been used as a canvas yet. She’s there to guide his every move when he’s unsure of what to do. And even if that smothers him sometimes, Tobio cannot imagine life without her. 

He shouldn’t think like this, he knows. He shouldn’t be filled with love for a woman who’s done more to repel it than to deserve it. He shouldn’t be overcome with gratitude when she lets him out into the garden surrounding the estate. Not when he’s sure she’ll never let him wander further than the clear-cut line on the grass; when he knows, instinctually, that outside is a place everyone should be able to explore. 

But he is. 

Tobio has tried, time and time again, to despise her; this woman who’s robbed him of his freedom. But he can’t. Not when she’s the one who brought him life in the first place. 

So he looks at her, in this rare, serene moment of comfort, and he mourns her departure, if only a little. Gothel cradles his jaw and, not for the first time, Tobio is left to drown in the blinding gray of her eyes. 

He closes his own when she kisses his forehead, “I’ll miss you, my flower,” she says. 

Tobio nods, “I’ll miss you too, mother,” he whispers back, “be careful, okay?”

She brings their heads closer together, bumps them together softly, “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

Tobio doesn’t doubt she will. 

୭

Summer goes by quickly, Tobio runs out of space on his bookshelves even quicker. Gothel makes a lot of runs, those days. And each time she comes back with little trinkets that Tobio treasures like nothing else; they are his little gateway to the outside world, like a connection to the people there, however small it may be.

The days are shorter, now, colder too. And somehow, Tobio revels in it. He feels like maybe he was made for this; for somber days and long dark nights, illuminated by the strong light of the moon. 

It pulls him in, somehow. 

With the drop in temperature comes a rise in his willingness to take on the world, to go out on an adventure. But his walls are only so big, and before he’s even truly aware of it, Tobio has run out of things to do. 

His mother only left a meager forty-five minutes ago, yet the boy finds himself stumped. It is in that moment, when agonizing boredom starts to slow the ticks of time, that he spots him scattering across the freshly painted wall, littering little yellow paw prints over the previously purple-coloured stone. 

“Tadashi!”

Suddenly, the pawprints grow into paws, which grow into legs, which grow into the tiny green body of an all too familiar reptilian. See, the chameleon – or Tadashi, as Tobio calls him – has been coming to the tower ever since he accidentally climbed in through the boy’s window last winter. Every day, without fail, the little critter claws its way into whatever room Tobio occupies at the moment, and waits for the boy to spot him. 

Some people might think it’s weird, having a leather-skinned friend. But what alternatives does Tobio have, really? Besides, he’s certain Tadashi hears him, gets him, even. Sometimes he swears he understands him, too. He’s glad he has a friend to keep him company. 

He laughs, a bright sound that echoes through the living room. It sounds a little strange, his happiness bellowing out of him in the middle of the icy chamber, but Tadashi seems to like it anyway. The animal crawls a little closer until he’s able to leap onto Tobio’s arm, his big brown eyes peering up into Tobio’s as if asking him what he’s doing. 

He feels the urge to respond, “I’m painting,” he tells Tadashi, “you wanna help?”

He swears he sees the chameleon’s round, green head bob in compliance. He wastes no time in grabbing the paint and holding it out in front of him for Tadashi to dip his toes into. 

He’s quite an artistic little fella, Tobio has to admit. The way the animal dances across the picture he’s painted, adding the tiniest of details with the brush of his claw. It’s fun, watching his friend crawl across the wall and leaving his mark on the way. 

Tobio doesn’t know how much time passes like that – the two of them coloring the walls – nor does he know when the smile creeped onto his face, but suddenly, it falls. 

“Tobio!”

Right. His mother. She did say she would only be gone for two hours, at most. He glances at Tadashi quickly, “make sure she doesn’t see you!” he hushes, “hurry!” he adds. And the critter seems to understand him immediately as he scurries off towards Tobio’s closet. 

“Tobio, I’m not getting any younger down here!” 

Her yells reach his ears just as he pops his head out of the tower. He sighs before plastering a smile onto his face. He drops his hair – most of it, anyway – out of the window until it reaches the ground. His mother steps through the loop she creates and Tobio wastes no time to hoist her up. 

“Hi, welcome home, mother,” he says quickly. 

Anticipation is building steadily inside him, has been for the last couple of weeks. But today’s the day. He’s going to ask her. Today. His veins almost burst with his nervous excitement. 

Gothel heaves a sigh as she cracks her back a little. “Oh Tobio,” she says, “how you manage to do that every single day without fail is beyond me. It looks absolutely exhausting, darling.”

Tobio shrugs, “it’s nothing, mother,” he says. 

She smiles at him, all warm and proud, “I suppose it wouldn't be for a handsome boy like you,” she says. 

Handsome, Tobio notes. He can’t exactly remember when he went from pretty to handsome in his mother’s eyes. He supposes he doesn’t hate the change. But it’s not what he’s focused on right now, either. 

He takes a deep breath, deep enough to catch his mother’s wandering attention. “What is it, my boy?” she says. 

He dares a glance, and he’s not disappointed with the sight; his mother looks… calm, for once. Almost like she’s ready to listen. As if she might actually give him what he wants. 

“So…” he starts, a little unsure, “tomorrow is a big day–”

He can’t finish his request before his mother interrupts. “Oh dear, before we get into big things,” she says, “mother is feeling a little run down. Would you sing for me, my flower? Then we can talk properly.”

Tobio takes a deep breath to collect himself. He needs a second to ignore the urge to snap at her, “of course, mother,” he says instead. He waits until she is settled behind him, hands firmly stroking his hair, and he sings. It’s rough, it’s fast, it’s entirely unlike their usual calm sessions at night. But Tobio doesn’t have the patience to stretch this out. 

“Make the clock reverse.”

He barely even feels the zap of power going through him; doesn’t really care for it at the moment. 

“Bring back what once was mine,”

He hears his mother sigh indignantly, urging him to slow down. He cares for that even less. 

“what once was mine.”

He rushed through it, he knows it. Just as he knows it can’t have been as satisfying for his mother as it usually is – the way it wasn’t for him. But he’s entirely caught up in his question. It’s been on his tongue for days now, fermenting until it was perfectly formed. It needs to come out. 

“So, as I was saying–”

His mother tuts, “what has you so impatient–”

Tobio is not easily deterred, not this time, “Tomorrow’s a pretty big day, and you didn’t really respond–”

“Tobio!”

“So I’m just going to tell you,” he goes on, “tomorrow’s the final day we can leave to make it to the floating lights in time! Tada!”

He doesn’t know when his fingers started playing with the hem of his blouse, but now that he’s aware of it he can’t quite make them stop. He finally manages to look back up at his mother. She does not look impressed. 

“And?” she says.

Tobio’s hands fiddle a little faster. Right, the hard part is still to come. He cocks his head to the side a little, “well,” he says, “I was hoping you would take me to see them?”

What was unimpressed before, is pissed now. His mother’s gaze is suddenly hard, cold as the icy grass laying just outside the tower. And then suddenly there is something scorching hot prickling Tobio’s skin. 

He feels tears gathering in the corner of his eyes to try and douse the flames in his cheeks; the ones lighted by the fiery strike of his mother’s palm across his face. They don’t get the chance to fall before rough fingers dig into the sensitive skin. 

His mother’s words are like gasoline when she speaks, fanning the heat even more than Tobio thought possible. “Absolutely not,” she hisses. 

He hasn’t in ages, can’t really remember when he did it last, but Tobio whimpers, then. It does not go unnoticed by the woman before him. She softens her hold on him, though only a little. 

“It’s not safe, dear,” she says. 

Once again, Tobio has to resist the urge to scream, has to hold back his need to let his tears run free. But he’s nothing if not thoroughly trained at that, and so he holds. Yet still, something in him is so done with this; so sick of bending to his mother’s every wish. For once, only once, he wants something for himself. He’s willing to fight for it, if he has to. 

If only he could.

“I know, mother,” he whispers instead. He can’t quite meet her eyes, “I’m sorry. I just thought it was something we could do for my birthday,” he adds. 

His mother scoffs, “your birthday isn’t for another month,” she says. 

And Tobio should know that it’s true, because that’s what she’s always told him; that he was born on the 22nd of January, during a beautiful full moon. But something in him gnaws, almost as if telling him to look further, deeper, into the floating lights he sees once a year. 

He realizes he’s lost in thought when his mother raises her brow, readying herself to speak. He hurriedly opens his mouth before she can, “I know, mother,” he says softly, “but you never let me out of this tower. And this – these lights – are all I want to see, anyway.”

He must not have been thinking clearly, when he uttered the words. Because the moment they leave his lips, he notices his mistake. He braces for impact, but his mother’s slap never comes. Instead, when he opens his eyes, he sees something akin to pity. 

“Oh Tobio,” his mother coos, “look at you. You want to go outside? You? My baby boy, you’re fragile as a flower. Still a little sapling, just a sprout. You know why we stay up in this tower.”

Tobio bites his lip, “I know,” he says quickly, “but you never do. I’m the one who stays in here, I just thought–”

His mother shoves him away from her, it stings almost more than the claw-marks left on Tobio’s cheeks, “that’s why you don’t think,” she says, “nothing good ever comes from it,”

He feels the tears running slowly, now, “I’m sorry, mother,” he whispers, “I should have known better.”

Gothel crouches in front of him, forces him to look her in the eye that way, and speaks again. “You should have,” she says, “but I will teach you to be better. Don’t you want to be better, my dear?” 

He nods weakly, all energy leaving his body as if she’s a leech draining him from his power. Still, she looks at him. Intently, almost as if she’s plotting something. Suddenly, she snaps her fingers and smiles, “I’ve got it,” she says, “I’ll make a trip to Miyagi to buy you your favorite paints. Then we can celebrate your birthday early. How does that sound?”

And despite the sting of his skin, despite the wetness of his cheek, Tobio is elated. “I’d like that, mother,” he whispers. 

He knows how long the trip is. If his mother wants to make it in time she would have to leave immediately. She would not be back for at least a week and a half. Maybe that’s why he feels so giddy when she finally straightens up and tells him she’s going to pack her stuff for the journey. 

He’ll finally be left alone. 

୭

Tobio is not left alone.

Tadashi is absolutely adamant on staying with him every single minute now that his mother has left the premises. He doesn’t particularly mind. The animal is great company, and he pushes him to do more than just paint and read all day. 

So far, Tobio has cleaned the entirety of the tower, has started on baking a cake, and has sewn one of his tunics back together; deep silver stitches over a soft purple fabric. It’s his favorite one, of course he had to fix it when he accidentally ripped it at the seams. 

He’s about to tie off the thread when a loud ‘thump’ catches his attention. 

He isn’t expecting any visitors, Tadashi is sitting right next to him, looking just as suspicious of the sudden noise as Tobio does. And Tobio has been very well-taught on the subject of stranger danger. 

He traipses up the stairs, swiping a pan from the stove as he goes. Surprisingly, the sounds don’t stop. He hears boots stomping over the floor, muffled only by the carpet he’d put there himself. Next, he hears voices. A voice, to be more precise. And, weirdly enough, whinnying. Though that specific sound seems to come from outside. 

Tobio wonders if he’s inhaled too many paint fumes when he rounds the corner, frying pan still thoroughly raised. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he pinches himself and realizes that no, this isn’t a dream. 

Because there, square in the middle of Tobio’s cluttered room, stands a man whistling loudly – and horribly off-pitch. 

Tobio doesn’t know what possesses him to do what he does next. Perhaps it’s the fact that his mother didn’t raise a coward, despite what she likes to make him believe. 

He steps closer to the figure – short and bulky, he sees now. He takes a deep breath. And slams the pan right atop his bright, fiery curls. 

The man slumps down onto the ground, and for a minute Tobio panics, Tadashi’s increasing chitters do nothing to soothe his nerves. He stands there for a moment, tangled in his own thoughts, before he comes back to his senses. 

With great effort, he hauls the man onto his feet. It’s a peculiar thing, really, seeing another human that isn’t his mother for the first time in his seventeen years of living. If he wasn’t freaking out right now, he’d even say the stranger looked handsome, a little rough around the edges, perhaps. 

But he is freaking out at the moment. And so he does the only thing he can think of. He opens his closet doors, and shoves the man inside. He cracks his knuckles and sighs deeply, he’ll deal with this trouble later.