Archive of Our Own

“History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, 

but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.” 

~ Maya Angelou

The earliest memory he had happened when he was 5. They’d been having a family picnic in some random park in the middle of the city. The sky was bright blue and a gentle breeze was blowing through. It was empty, but that didn’t bother him. He jumped this way and that on the playground, playing a game that only he knew the rules of. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the security guards his father always had around patrolling. There was one by the gates, gently dissuading any other patrons from entering the property. He didn’t care at all, happy to have some time to spend with his parents outside. 

He jumped down from the monkey bars and ran to his mother, his hair flying freely in the wind. His white shirt was covered in dust and grass stains, and his mother sighed at the sight of him. Jumping, he was caught mid-air before he could land. Surprised, he looked up and grinned. His father’s face gaze down at him, smiling softly at his son. Arms pulled him close to his chest and he stretched his arms out as far as they could reach, embracing his father’s chest. He heard his mother laughing behind him and squirmed in the grip until he was put back down. Immediately, he lunged, aiming for his mother. She caught him in her thin arms, limbs coming around to tuck his head against her shoulder. She squeezed him tightly, relishing the feeling of her small child in her arms. She coughed lightly and let him go, turning him around to show him all the food laid out on the blanket. Without a second thought, he dove for the food, gobbling up everything in sight. Behind him, his father went around to his mother and laid a thin blanket around her shoulder, gently placing his hand there. Her’s came up to meet it and they sat there for a while, enjoying the peaceful afternoon. 

He was still eating when the screaming started. Dropping whatever food he had in his hands, he turned around, heart racing in panic. In front of him, his mother was laying down. She was facing the sky, face blank. In her chest, a large bullet hole oozed out blood, staining her baby blue dress an ugly maroon. Her blood spilled over, inching closer to his legs, the never ending stream of fluids sputtering out. He was frozen, staring in horror. Distantly, he could hear his father, yelling for vengeance. The screaming was coming from behind him and he forcefully pulled his gaze away. Another woman was standing there, clutching at her chest and pointing at his mother’s lifeless body. She hadn’t stopped screaming, the sound grating on his nerves, and in the distance behind her, he could see more people running around. The piercing wails of emergency sirens were coming closer. His gaze got distracted by a glinting in the sunlight. Beside the woman, on the ground, was something shiny. She followed his gaze, her screams cutting off abruptly. The sirens were closer. Cautiously, the woman bent down and picked up the reflective object. She stood to her full height and angled her hand, revealing a shining silver gun. Head tilted, she raised it, pointing the muzzle directly at him. He didn’t react at all, just stared back, face completely blank. Barking out a laugh, she put the gun in her pocket and ran away. He watched her go, numb. 

He turned back to his dying mother, and stared, eyes unblinking. The blood had stopped flowing out, and the flowing river had reached him. It soaked through his socks, wet and sticky. Her eyes were lifeless staring straight up. He padded closer, uncaring of the blood sticking to his skin. In her eyes, a stray tear was stuck, unshed. His hands reached out, touching her face. He had yet to make a sound, had yet to feel anything other than cold . 

An arm wrapped around his waist and he was ripped away from his dead mother. Reacting instinctively, he lashed out, finally letting out the scream that had been lodged in his throat. He fought against his captor, trying his hardest to get back to his mother. He wailed and sobbed and screamed and pleaded and yelled but, no matter what he did, he was still trapped. Two men ran onto the scene, blocking his line of sight. They bent down, doing something he couldn’t see. When they stood up, his mother was placed on a stretcher, a sheet placed lightly over her. They ran off, carrying her into the back of an ambulance. There was a large bloodstain where she had lain, wide as a lake, soaking through the blanket and into the earth below. He was forcefully turned around, face squished into his father’s chest. His tiny fists slammed against him, not making a single dent. It got harder and harder to breathe. In the end, he ran out of air before he stopped wailing, falling unconscious in his father’s arms. 

—We Are Made By History—

He could hear his father’s voice screaming at the police officer. Sitting on the ground, he was playing with his stuffed bunny. The police had arrived at their apartment in the morning, coming to update his father on the case. He’d just sat on the floor, as he had since his father had placed him there. He hadn’t moved willingly since he got ripped away from his mother, and hadn’t felt anything since his tears ran dry. 

“MY WIFE WAS MURDERED AND YOU CAN’T EVEN FIND WHO’S RESPONSIBLE?!” 

His bunny stared up at him. It was a soft fluffy white with a small baby blue bow in its hair. The same blue as his mother’s sundress. Out of nowhere, he threw his stuffed animal around the room, rage briefly overtaking his tiny body. Deflating, the cold numbness returned. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO WITNESSES?!”

He could go in and tell them what he saw. Tell them about the woman with the gun, how she ran away. Somehow, he knew it wouldn’t help. She wouldn’t be found unless she wanted to be found. Arms pulled his knees in tight, hiding his face. The sound of a door slamming open was heard, somewhere to his left. His father’s heavy footsteps were followed by the police officer’s hesitant ones. His father went to the kitchen and he heard the pantry being opened. A clink, glass thumping on the table, and the sloshing of liquid was heard overtop of the officer’s protests.

“We’re doing our best sir, it's just that—”

“CLEARLY YOUR BEST ISN’T ENOUGH!”

“—the fact that no one else was allowed into the park is slowin—”

“SO NOW IT’S MY FAULT FOR TRYING TO KEEP MY FAMILY SAFE?”

“I didn’t say that Sir, but the circumstances are what they—”

Underneath the loud argument, he could hear his father drinking, hear the heavy thumps as the glass hit the table. They kept arguing, voices getting louder and louder. On his right, he felt another body coming close. Raising his head, he was met with the face of his bunny. The second police officer was crouching beside him. She held out the stuffed animal and after a few moments of careful consideration, he reached out and took it. Without a word, she stood and went to the kitchen. The arguing quieted. Then, the front door was opened and closed, his father’s loud sighs ringing out in the leftover silence. He didn’t move from his spot on the floor. Arms wrapped around the bunny, bringing it into his space. 

“Yamato.” His father called over to him, forcing him to look up from the safety of his knees. He’d moved to sit on the couch. One hand was wrapped around the neck of a bottle. It smelled like regret and death. His other hand was covering his eyes, rubbing across them. He dropped his hand and sigh, body melting into the couch cushions. His hand patted the cushion beside him but he hesitated. He didn’t want to move but he didn’t want to disobey his father. Making up his mind, he picked himself up on shaky legs, muscles slightly weakened. He hadn’t moved by himself in over two weeks, not since his mother’s murder. Silently, he padded over and climbed onto the couch, never dropping his bunny. Settling down, he hugged his bunny tightly and stared down at the table. A large hand gently gripped his shoulders, his father pulling him slowly into his side. They sat there, side by side, not saying a word. The silence was heavy, pressing down onto the living room. 

“Yamato,” his father said, breaking the silence. “I’ll do anything to protect you. You’re my child, your mother’s child. We won’t let anything or anyone get to you.” He didn’t say anything. His father’s words didn’t make anything better. A feeling of dread settled into his stomach. Something bad was going to happen. He could feel it.

—We Are Made By History—

He was standing outside, staring up at the giant house. He wore a dress that day, the hem swayed in the wind. It was baby blue, same as his mother’s. The stuffed bunny was clutched in his hands and only got gripped tighter as the movers walked in and out, carrying various sizes of furniture in. 

After a month of nothing, his father made the decision to move them out of the city. Too exposed , he’d said. You could get attacked. He didn’t really believe him. That dreadful feeling had yet to leave his stomach. In addition, his father’s drinking hadn’t slowed down at all. If anything, it’d gotten much faster, barely waiting an hour in between each bottle. The quality went down hill, not that he really knew or understood the difference. It all smelled the same to him. 

“Yamato.” His father was standing in the doorway, beckoning him inside. Hesitating only for a brief second, he quickly ran over, doing his best not to trip. He paused at the foot of the stairs, craning his neck up to see the top. The blinding midday sun hid the edge,looming impossibly tall. His father called out again and he ripped his gaze away, blinking rapidly to see past the sunspots left seared into his eyelids. His legs carried him all the way to his father’s side and he took the offered hand, letting himself be led farther in. His glance over his shoulder, trying to get one last look at the sprawling green yard, his father pulling him along, uncaring. 

They went up the stairs and to the left, walking down a long hallway. At the very end, they paused in front of a large white door. It was taller than his father, something that he’d never seen before. A hand reached out and pushed the door open, revealing four blank walls and a large window on the right wall. The room was mostly empty, save for a single bed on the opposite wall and a desk on the same wall as the door. Nudged forward, he stepped into the room, spinning in a slow circle to take in everything. In the left corner, another white door blended into the wall, almost imperceptible. He placed his bunny on the bed, making sure that it was sitting up, before skipping over to the mystery door. To open it, he was forced to stand on his tip-toes and stretch his arm as far up as it would go. In the end, he managed to nudge the doorknob enough to open the door, stumbling when his support suddenly vanished. 

A pristine white bathroom was situated inside. It was much bigger than their old one, and seeing as there was only one bed in the room, he imagined it was for him. At the end of the bathroom was another door so he ignored everything inside and went straight for the second door. It was easier to open a door the second time, so it was opened in a fraction of the time. This room was obviously a large walk-in closet, with rods hanging high up and drawers lower to the ground. There was nothing in them at the moment, but he could hear the movers starting on the second floor so they’d probably put all his stuff in here. Bored, he turned around and ran back to the main room. His father was waiting there, standing in the middle. When he came out of the bathroom, his father knelt down on one knee and pulled something out from behind his back. Curious, he stepped closer, unsure of what it could be. 

His father opened his hand to reveal a locket on a small chain. When he didn’t react, his father gently nudged his hand, urging him to take it. Inside, there was a picture of his mother, wearing that same baby blue dress. She was smiling at him, looking as if she’d jump out and hug him at any given moment. Tears started to well up in his eyes and he rubbed them away. He hadn’t cried since her funeral over two weeks ago and he wasn’t about to start now. He could feel his father’s gaze on his head so he closed the locket and looked up, bringing it up to his chest. Behind him, outside in the hall, he could hear the movers shifting things around, placing furniture and filling the much larger space. 

“Yamato,” his father captured his attention again. He gestured for him to follow and he did so, leaving the locket on the bed beside his bunny, taking hold of his father’s hand. Together, they walked out of his room and back to the foyer. From there, they went right, entering a room that could be loosely classified as a living room. In actuality, it was as big as their entire apartment. His eyes darted around, trying to take in every detail. Tugging him lightly, his father brought him over to the window. It showed the backyard with its sprawling gardens and large swimming pool. In the distance, he could see the edge of the forest he knew surrounded the property completely, except the front side. Squinting, he could see a new security team starting to set up a gate, although he didn’t know if it was meant to keep him in or keep others out. 

“This is our new home.” He glanced up, seeing a dark look on his father’s face. “You’ll be safe here.” He looked back out and felt something in him die a little. The gate continued to be put up, towering over the small shapes of the security guards. 

—We Are Made By History—

It was 2 am according to the alarm clock he had in his room. Pulling open his bedroom door, he crept out and closed it behind him. It’d been two months since they’d moved in and he had yet to be allowed outside to play. Every time he asked, he got a sharp look from his father and a stern warning to never go outside. But he was tired of that. He wanted to feel the air on his face, smell the freshness of the forest, taste the sea from where he stood. He wanted to be free and tonight, his father wasn’t going to stop him. Usually, his father stayed in the kitchen until late, very late, before heading to his room located in another area of the house. He’d been told that the floor his room was on was completely his, but it was always too empty for his taste. Even the maids and servants had been told to steer clear, only ever coming in to clean when he wasn’t in a certain room. He tried to spend as much time as he could with his father, desperate for any kind of human interaction, but even that wasn’t enough. His father was distracted all the time, and he always smelled like that awful scent. Regret and death. 

He moved cautiously down the stairs, making sure to place every single footstep down in a way that ensured no noise was made. Slowly, at a snail's pace, he made his way down and turned to the left. He had to pass by the kitchen and as he did, he poked his head inside. Internally, he cheered at the sight of the empty kitchen. Even if he didn’t know the exact time his father went to bed, he was sure that 2 am was late enough for him to be gone. Stepping a bit faster now, he hurried to the back door. He slid the porch door open, flinching when the lock unlatched, loudly echoing in the space. When nothing happened, he continued. The door slid open just enough to let him squeeze his body out, closing it behind him. Eyes darted around, checking for any security. Nobody was in sight. Cautiously, he stepped out further, and for the first time since moving in, he smiled. 

His lips peeled back, exposing his teeth and he spun around. The air blew his baggy shirt, whipping it around his body as he laughed quietly. Inhaling deeply, the scent of the forest mixed together with the sea breeze, creating a whole new smell. It was his favourite smell in the whole world. It smelled like freedom. Throwing all caution to the wind, he prepared to run down the steps and into the garden, wanting to smell the flowers growing there. Before he could take a single step, he felt a large, hard hand grip the top of his arm. 

A gasp escaped his throat and he whipped his head around, fear flooding into his body. Right behind him, clutching his arm in a bruising grip, was his father. He was huffing, the smell of alcohol wafting off him, head lowered, eyes unreadable. He tried to pull his arm away, but his father tightened his grip even more, making his bones creak. Tears rushed to his eyes at the pain, and he let out a sharp cry. Hearing the evidence of his presence, his father frowned harder and pulled him back inside. Face grimacing, he struggled to get out of the grip, hand reaching out, trying to grasp the night air. It was useless. His tiny body was pulled inside and the door was slammed shut, curtains dropping down. A single tear rolled down his face as the view of his freedom was shut away. 

He got tossed onto the floor. His father loomed over him, casting a shadow over his fallen body. Risking a glance up, he flinched back in fear. His father was mad. Very mad. Fury raged in his eyes and he was struggling to stay calm. 

“Did I not tell you…that going outside was forbidden?” His voice was a deadly calm, strain betraying his wrath. He fumbled, not knowing what to say. 

“Father, I—”

“You what, Yamato? You disobeyed my orders?” 

“No! I mean, I did but it—”

“Did you think it was for a good cause?” His words made him freeze. “Was it just for fun? Hmm?” He didn’t answer, throat closing up the longer his father spoke. “ANSWER ME!” He finally screamed, causing him to scramble back in fear. He stood, staring down. Above him, his father huffed angrily and paced. 

“What don’t you understand? I AM TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!” His yelling was getting louder, surely waking the staff that lived on site. He looked around, hoping against all reasoning that someone would walk in and stop the yelling. No one did. He was alone. 

“Was your mother’s death just a game to you?” His eyes ripped themselves away from the floor, pinning his father with a vengeful stare. How dare his father assume that he felt nothing? His father stared back, eyes colder than they had ever been before. He looked away first, choosing to stare down at the ground again. Anything to stop staring into that angry void. His father let out an angry groan. He threw the empty bottle in his hand against the wall. 

“Get out.” He didn’t hesitate, fleeing as quickly as he could. Running up the stairs, he returned to the safety of his room, slamming the door shut with as much strength as his tiny body could manage. Climbing into his bed, he pulled the covers over his head. In his hand, he opened his mother’s locket and stared at her smiling face. He cried, for his mother, for his freedom. He didn’t waste a single tear on his father. 

He knew that in the morning his father would apologize, giving him as much food as he wanted and letting him stay up way past his bedtime. This wasn’t the first argument they’d gotten into, and it wouldn’t be the last. He curled in on himself and fell into a restless sleep. 

—We Are Made By History—

It was a week after his 6th birthday, about six months since they’d moved away from their life in the city. 

His father was spending more and more time in his study, refusing to come out even for mealtimes. That was fine by him. When he would come out he’d be angry and violent. Last time they interacted outside of a meal, he’d ended up with a bruise on his leg that still felt sore. That’s what made this day so weird.

He’d been in his room, the same place he spent 90% of his time. Drawing on a piece of paper to pass the time, the knock on his door startled him. His eyebrows furrowed in suspicion, and he slid out of his desk chair. Reaching for the door, he pulled it open. 

“Kaido-sama requests your presence in the drawing room, Yamato-bocchan.” The maid who stood at the door bowed and he stepped back in surprise. His father barely wanted to acknowledge him nowadays, so sending for him was extremely odd. Cautiously, he stepped out of the room and closed the door. He followed the maid down the stairs and to the drawing room on the first floor. 

Inside, the winter sunlight poured in through the large windows. Couches were scattered throughout the room, each having its own coffee table within reach. His father was sitting on an armchair in the back, close to the windows. He was staring out contemplatively, and to his surprise, his father didn’t seem to have any sort of alcohol with him. Suspicion rising, he walked over to the couch opposite to his father and sat down. The garden outside was frozen over, all the branches bare and covered in frost. The unused swimming pool was covered and the pine trees in the distance looked like white pillars shooting up from the ground. A chill settled over his shoulder and he shivered, pulling his arms in closer, his t-shirt doing very little to warm him up. In the smaller space of his room, he hadn’t felt the cold as prominently, but in this room, with the humongous windows and lack of human warmth, the cold seeped through his thin t-shirt, chilling his skin. 

His father snorted, unimpressed with his reaction, and he dropped his arms. He wasn’t going to show any form of weakness. Not that it helped, seeing as his father snorted harder at that. He just frowned, staring at the ground. He hadn’t tried to go outside since that day, but it still hurt to even look outside for too long, to be reminded of what he couldn’t have. 

“You’ll start attending school next week.” He looked up, suspicion and hope warring in his eyes. School meant other people, but with his father’s paranoia, he knew it couldn’t be that easy. His father noticed his expression and barked out a short laugh, mocking his excitement. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” He hummed and stared back outside. “It will be an online school. I can’t risk anything happening to you outside.” He opened his mouth to argue, to yell, to throw a tantrum, but the bruise pulsed on his leg and he shut his mouth. His eyes wandered back to the floor and he sat still, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself. They sat there in more silence, letting the cold winter air permeate the space between them. 

Not being able to stand the dead silence any longer, he spoke up. “Will that be everything, Father?” His father didn’t even bother answering him, dismissing him with a single wave of his hand. Not that he was complaining. It was killing him not to argue back, but there was nothing he could do. As he walked towards the door, he heard his father mutter under his breath. 

“Your mother would kill me if anything happened to you, my child.” Fists tightening in anger, he stalked out of the drawing room and back to his bedroom, ignoring the maid that was standing outside. He’d just have to wait longer to try going outside again. His father couldn’t watch him 24/7, he was sure of it. One day, one day soon, he’d be able to feel the wind in his hair once more, to feel the lightness of his soul. 

—We Are Made By History—

Instead of seeing his father on his 8th birthday, he spent the day in his room, alone save for his mother’s picture. He had tried seeing him when he woke up for breakfast, hoping that it would be different on his birthday. Hesitantly, he had made his way over to his father’s side of the house. He had gathered his courage and knocked on the study door. No response. He had waited outside for a few minutes before giving up, heading back up to his room without eating anything. 

Laying under the covers, he dozed lightly, hoping to pass the time faster, when he was awoken by a knocking on the door. Hope swelled in his chest and he struggled to push it back down. Cautiously, he slipped out and padded over. He stopped at the foot of the door. His hand shook as it reached for the handle. Could it really be his father? Barring that first day when he showed him his room, he’d never seen his father in ‘his side’ of the house. Taking a deep breath, he ripped the door open like ripping off a band-aid. 

On the other side was not his father. A maid was there, bowing to him. 

“Yamato-bocchan.” She held out a wrapped present for him to take, which he did, heart sinking at the sight of her. “This is from your father. Kaido-sama apologizes but he will be occupied all day and won’t be able to see you.” 

He wiped away a stray tear, angrily muttering, “Of course he won’t. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.” The maid stared at him, pity in her eyes. 

Moving back, hand sliding up to close the door, he was startled when it was blocked. Eyes darted up, seeing a hand stopping the movement. He traced the hand back to the maid, shocked to see her doing something so out of character. She looked equally as shocked at her own actions but drew back calmly, the slight tremor in her hand betraying her composure. 

They stood there, unsure of what to do after that. Finally, after an awkwardly long time of the two of them  just staring at each other, the maid spoke. “I was curious, Yamato-bocchan.” He hummed, nodded his head in encouragement. “You don’t…look like a boy. Why do we refer to you as Young Master instead of Young Mistress?” She set her gaze on the dress he had chosen to wear that day, using it as evidence.

He was confused. He’d never really thought about it, to be honest. This had just been the way it always was. Hesitating, he thought long and hard before answering the maid, who patiently waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“I’m not a girl. I’m not a boy, either. I’m just me.” He nodded, gaining confidence as he spoke. “It’s easier to say Son than Daughter, if that helps.” 

The maid was a bit taken aback at his answer. Nevertheless, she nodded in understanding and bowed. “Enjoy your day, Yamato-bocchan. Happy birthday.” He waved his hand, dismissing her. 

Distracted by the wrapped gift, his legs automatically carried him to his desk. He sat down and placed the present in front of him, staring at it unblinking. He didn’t know what to expect anymore. 

Biting the bullet, he ripped open the wrapping paper, and out fell two separate packages. His left hand reached out and scooped up the larger package. Flipping it over, he saw it was a plain black notebook. He ripped the thin plastic covering it and opened it. Inside, pages filled with semi-transparent dots stared up at him. A quick flip through revealed that all the pages were blank save for the dots. Confused, his puzzled expression shifted focus, eyes landing on the smaller package a ways away. Setting the journal aside for the moment, his left hand reached out to grab the second package. It was a set of colourful pens. His confusion deepened and he turned the pack, eyes widening when he saw the note taped to the back. 

Happy birthday my child. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to celebrate with you. Your gift this year is a notebook and a set of pens for you to be able to use as you wish. If you need anything else, send a message through the staff and they’ll be able to get it to me. 

In smaller font, underneath that wall of text, it read:

I love you, my child. Your mother would be proud of you.

He scowled at the post script, choosing to ignore it. He left both gifts on the desk and went back to his bed. He’d try them out later, but for now, he just wanted to pretend that time wasn’t passing him by. 

—We Are Made By History—

A week later, he overheard that the maid he’d talked to had been fired. He didn’t know why, but a sinking feeling in his stomach told him it was his fault. 

—We Are Made By History—

He was 9 now, and he’d just failed three of his courses. It shouldn’t have mattered that much. It’s not like he was enjoying himself. He watched the lecture videos, did the assignments, handed them in, and repeated. His father controlled his internet access so it wasn’t like he was allowed to slack off on the computer anyways. He never had direct contact with his teacher and he never talked to any of the servants unless he had to. The only time he interacted with his father was once every few months. He’d spent more time locked in his office ‘working’ than outside with his child. 

He was sitting in the living room right now. About 10 minutes ago, he’d been summoned by his father. Probably to talk about his failing grades. Pouting, he crossed his arms. It wasn’t his fault. School was boring, the videos always took too long, and there were too many things in his room that distracted him. Another 5 minutes passed, his father still not showing up. Sighing, he got up, ready to head back to his room. As he was leaving, he ran into something solid. Looking up, he saw his father’s disappointed face staring back down at him. Letting out a small groan, he turned around and headed back to his seat. Without looking at his father, he sat down, ready to get this talk over with. 

His father sat down across from him, exhaling as he settled into the cushions. Silence enveloped the room, as was common between the two. The only time they weren’t silent, they were usually yelling at each other. He stared down at the floor, refusing to make eye contact. That never ended well. 

“Yamato,” his father said firmly. Still, his eyes were turned downwards. “Yamato.” The tone was colder now. “Yamato.” He looked up, the sharpness in his father’s tone making a spike of fear shoot through his lungs. His father looked furious with him. He was taken aback, face contorting in various expressions of confusion. Why was he so angry? It was just a couple of stupid school courses. He’d redo them in the next year and pass them then. 

His father stood up, faster than he thought he could move. His arms dropped down to his sides, supporting his weight as he leaned back. “Why did you fail?”

He didn’t say anything, not knowing how to respond in a way that wouldn’t anger him. The longer he stayed silent, the more he could feel his father’s rage building. It was pressing down on him, making him feel smaller. 

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” His eyes darted up without his consent. When his father was this mad, it was best to just follow orders to get out of it unscathed. Or well, as unscathed as he ever got. “Why? Did you? Fail?” 

He mumbled something about being distracted and full body flinched when his father slammed his hand on the table. They made eye contact and his dread continued to grow when he saw the barely concealed fury in his eyes. 

“That’s not an excuse.”

Forcing their eyes apart, he tried to look for a way out. There was something wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Eyes moved back and forth, spotting a servant standing at the entranceway. He pleaded with his eyes but was unsurprised when the servant merely turned his head, pretending not to see the scene in front of him. He was mid-sneer when his head snapped to the side. A gasp escaped his lungs and he brought his right hand up to his burning cheek. It felt hot and tender. Blinking away tears, his mind struggled to catch up. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” 

His father had hit him, slapped him across the face with no remorse. That’s when he realized what was wrong. The perpetual scent of regret and death that hung around his father like a cloak was missing. Meaning that his father was 100% sober for the first time in years. His father, sober, had slapped him across the face. Up until that moment, he’d hoped it was just a side effect of the alcohol, that he wasn’t cognizant of what he was doing. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. His eyes snapped back to his father and rage overtook him. 

He lunged at his father, aiming a devastating fist at his face, but it was all for not. His father batted him out of the air effortlessly and he went flying, landing harshly on the ground. Coughing, he pulled himself up and tried again, getting the same results. This time, his fragile body wasn’t able to get up again. He lay on his side, struggling to breath. His father loomed over him, fists clenched tight. A booted foot kicked him in the stomach and he curled up into a ball. Above him, he heard his father click his tongue, disappointed that his child couldn’t even be a decent punching bag. He turned around and walked to the doorway. 

As he was leaving, he shot back one last closing remark. “Don’t forget your place. You are Shinwa Yamato. You represent the company and me in everything you do. Do not disappoint me again.” He left, leaving his child heaving in pain, the servant following his master out. 

He lay there, breathing softly. Tears threatened to fall but he stopped them before they could. He refused to cry because of that bastard. Slowly, he stood up, holding one arm against his ribs. He placed his other hand on the wall, making his way to the infirmary. When he got there, the nurses stationed there were expecting him. They made quick work of his injuries and sent him on his way. He hobbled back to his room and lay down. On the corner of his bed, his mother’s locket was open, smiling at him from her place around his bunny’s neck. He spared a moment to say good night to her before doing his best to fall asleep. 

—We Are Made By History—

“Yamato.” He heard his father calling for him from the foot of the stairs. He’d been in the middle of a math assignment but the sound of his cold voice drew him out and he abandoned his work immediately, rushing down. Slowing down, he descended the stairs cautiously. Standing in the foyer were two strange men, not dressed how he’d come to expect the various servants and guards did. Stepping lightly, he stood beside his father and looked up. The larger of the two leered down at him, a maniacal grin comfortable on his face. Behind him, the taller one stared down impassively, face blank and arms crossed. Neither of them looked very friendly and he started to cringe back, wanting to run to the safety of his room. 

One hand on his back, he felt his father push him forwards. “Introduce yourself.”

Shaking off his nerves, he straightened his back and spoke with his chest. “My name is Shinwa Yamato, son of Shinwa Kaido. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He ended his statement with a short bow, deep enough to be polite but not so deep as to submit to another authority. The large man laughed, a deep rumbling sound that came from his core. The taller man nodded back but made no motion to introduce himself. 

Dropping his hands onto his knees, the larger man pushed his face up into Yamato’s personal space, causing him to lose his posture and flinch backwards. He just laughed loudly in his face. 

“Aren’t you a cutie, Ya~ma~to~chan!” 

“Queen,” His father’s stern voice called out in warning. The larger man stood back up, raising his hands in surrender. 

“So~rry.” The taller man scoffed at him and pushed his companion backwards, stepping forward to get closer to Yamato. He stopped just out of arm's reach and knelt down, coming face to face with him. 

“Apologies for my coworker.” His voice was even deeper than his father’s and had a soothing quality to it. Despite that, his empty tone shook Yamato’s core, raising his guard in defence. “My name is King and the idiot behind me is Queen. We’ll be taking care of you from now on.” Eyes wide in disbelief, he turned to his father. He nodded, confirming King’s words. Yamato took another step back, stumbling as his heels hit the edge of the staircase. Queen’s grating laughter rang out, and that was the last straw for him. 

Ignoring his father’s calls, he ran up the stairs, aiming for the safety of his room. He burst through the door and slammed it shut behind him. Faintly, he could still hear Queen’s laughter through the door. His back against the door, he slid down and scanned his room. 

It had changed radically since he first laid eyes on it 5 years before. 

The window sill on the right had fairy lights draped all over it, a gift from the head chef for his 9th birthday. He was dismissed the next day. 

The bed frame was the same, but Yamato had amassed a larger stuffed animal collection in the years that had passed. A very nice lady had taught him how to crochet when he was 8 and the majority of the animals on his bed were misshapen and deformed from his attempts. She was also fired two weeks later. 

His desk had changed out for a different model. He’d requested that one specifically. Before, it had just been a single table with no storage spaces. The current desk sitting against the wall was a beautiful dark brown, reminding him of the pine trees in the forest that surround his father’s house. Each side of the desk had a number of drawers underneath and on the surface, a tower of cubbies for more papers and trinkets stood tall. Across from the window, against the once empty wall, a matching bookcase reached all the way to the ceiling, forcing him to use a ladder to reach the top shelves. There weren’t that many books in there, but he loved it either way. 

In his closet, Yamato had amassed a large collection of soft shirts and pants. The occasional dress or skirt made its way in there, but due to his rapidly growing body, he chose to wear oversized shirts and baggy pants instead. His small collection of shoes were largely for show, seeing as he wasn’t allowed to go outside, but he liked to put them on and pretend. 

The largest change was definitely his walls. The once blank white walls were covered in paper. Childish drawings, various assignments, even a crochet pattern or two, were all pinned up. Every kind word he’d received from the staff was lovingly handwritten and put up beside his bed, letting him see the words whenever he lay in bed. It looked as if a rainbow had exploded on his walls. Although he wasn’t the best artist, he loved writing out whatever came to mind and putting them on his walls, displaying his thoughts and emotions. He found comfort in seeing his writing on the walls, able to pretend that it was a different voice saying them. 

It didn’t help at the moment. He dragged himself away from the door and climbed into bed, math assignment forgotten. Pulling the covers over his head, he pulled out his bunny and the locket from underneath the mountain of crocheted animals. For the first time in months, he fell asleep clutching the bunny tight in his grip, his mother’s locket touching the back of his hand. If he focused hard enough, he could pretend that the cold metal was her hand grasping his. 

—We Are Made By History—

“Oh Ya~ma~to~!” The bright call startled him out of bed. Scrambling out of bed, he rushed to the door and threw it open before Queen could. Stupidly, he’d forgotten that King was switching with Queen that day and hadn’t set an alarm to wake up early. In the past six months, Yamato had gotten a pretty good handle on the different personalities of his caretakers. While King was on the more quiet side, his high expectations of obedience hung over Yamato’s head and pressed down harshly. He always got the most school work down when King was watching him, but he was perpetually exhausted. On the other hand, Queen was the more unpredictable one, throwing open his door at all hours of the day. He’d taken to forcing him around the house, nothing more than to annoy him. This had the unfortunate consequence of distracting him from his schoolwork, which meant that when King came back, he’d work harder. It was an exhausting, unending cycle, and it took all his energy to keep up. 

Outside, Queen was waiting, his maniacal grin ever present on his lips. His frame blocked the doorway, forcing Yamato to step back to be able to see his face. He loomed over him, even if Yamato was constantly growing. At this rate, he’d definitely end up as tall, if not taller, but for the moment, he was still shorter. His lips pulled back in a snarl, contrasting the sharpness of Queen’s grin. He raised a single hand and beckoned him forward with one finger, stepping out of the way and starting down the hallway. Yamato glanced back at the relative safety of his bed before following, making sure to close his door on the way out. Even if he went back to bed, he’d learned that Queen didn’t have boundaries and he would gladly drag him out kicking and screaming if necessary. 

The two of them walked down the hallway and stopped at a door on the left, not quite at the very end but close enough. Queen walked in, letting the door fall in his face. He grumbled, pushing the door so he could fit through. His mouth dropped and he gasped at the sight before him.

Inside, what felt like hundreds of instruments were strewn around the room. Guitars of all shapes and sizes were hung on the walls. More classical string instruments, like violins and cellos, were neatly placed in one corner. A small section of woodwind instruments, like clarinets and saxophones, as well as various brass instruments, were in display cases on the opposite wall. On the far side of the room, with a window to see through, a producing station was set up, with a recording booth on the other side. The remaining wall was filled with music books and records, for all instruments and all genres. Finally, drawing in his eyes from the moment he stepped inside, in the middle of the room, sat a grand piano. 

Ignoring Queen’s presence, Yamato stepped reverently into the room. He’d never seen so many instruments in his life, and he was almost scared to be inside, cautiously moving around so as to not knock anything over. Distantly, he could hear that grating laughter, but all his senses were focused on the piano in front of him. Reaching out one hand, he delicately pressed a single note, letting it echo. The crisp sound settled into his soul and he felt himself relax. 

“I take it you like my setup?” Queen’s awful voice ripped him out of his starstruck state. He ripped his hand away from the piano, whipping around to glare at the man. He was staring straight at Yamato, pride and smug satisfaction evident on his face. 

“What the hell am I doing here?” Queen dropped his crossed arms and walked over to the production station, sitting down heavily. 

“Kaido-sama told me that you needed something to occupy your time,” he explained. “He thinks it’ll help you focus on your schoolwork if you have no free time.” He snorted at this. “I think that’s a stupid notion, but hey, y’aint my kid so why should I care?” He shrugged, settling back. One hand did a sweep of the room, Yamato’s eyes following it, scanning the room again. “4 hours a day, minimum, you’ll be in here, learning how to play a variety of these instruments.” Yamato’s stomach dropped. Any awe he might’ve had at the sight soured, knowing that this was just another prison cell keeping him trapped. 

“And if I refuse?” It wasn’t wise to anger Queen, but he wasn’t going to just take the man at his word. He hadn’t seen his father in six months, so who even knew if he actually ordered this. What if this was just another twisted torture method that Queen had come up with? The man in question barked out a laugh and stood up. In the blink of an eye, he crossed the room, looming over Yamato. Not backing down, he made eye contact, trying to see past those ridiculous sunglasses he never took off. 

He grinned, no effort made to conceal his malicious intent. “You and I both know that I have my ways of…persuading you.” The purr he added to the last word made a shiver of disgust run down Yamato’s spine. He held eye contact for a while longer but Queen didn’t flinch once. In the end, he looked away and took a step back. Queen laughed at him but let him go. Yamato made his way back out, stopping at the doorway when Queen called out to him. 

“We start tomorrow. Don’t be late~!”

He left the room scowling. As if he had any other choice. 

—We Are Made By History—

The first time he got locked in the storage room was two weeks after meeting his new caretakers. Honestly, he didn’t know what he’d done. Ignored Queen for too long? Annoyed the man too much? Thousands of possible excuses and scenarios ran through his mind, each more baffling than the last. 

The first hour wasn’t so bad. He stared out the single window, enjoying some sunlight. He thought he’d be out of there in a bit. 

By hour three, he started to get hungry. Being locked away without food was different to choosing not to eat out of spite. He didn’t know why, but his stomach wouldn’t settle down. It kept turning and churning and rumbling.

By hour seven he’d given up trying to figure out why he was even there in the first place. He’d spent the last thirty minutes pounding the door with his fists, hoping that someone would take pity on him and open the door. It had never happened in the past, so why should this time be any different?

Hour eight came and went, the only evidence of time passing was the dried blood on his knuckles from slamming them into the wood of the door. It hadn’t even made a dent. 

After that, the passage of time stopped existing. His voice was hoarse from screaming, body wracked with tremors from lack of food. From his schoolwork  , he knew it had been less than three days, since he hadn’t had any water, but it felt so much longer than that. Occasionally, he’d hear footsteps outside, but the sparks of hope that would flutter in his chest quickly died when the door remained shut. He slept mostly, having very little else to do. He’d wake up, unsure how much time had passed. The sun didn’t help. Once he’d woken up, convinced it was sunset, only to watch as the sun rose in the sky instead. 

For the first time in years, he begged his father for help, begging to be let out. 

He wasn’t. 

—We Are Made By History—

His 11th birthday had come and gone by the time he saw his father again. Under Queen's dutiful teaching, he’d manage to progress well in his musical studies. He hated every minute spent in that man’s presence, but he didn’t want to spend another dreaded second locked in that room. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you looked at it, for every piece of his soul that died being around that man, a piece healed the longer he spent playing music. Something about it just settled in him, burying itself deep within and warming him from the inside out. Not that he would ever let Queen know that. 

It was a King day when he saw his father again. Out of nowhere, King had told him to pack a day bag, and had led him to the garage he knew existed but had never gone into. The car chosen was inconspicuous, blending in with normal cars, had it not been for its blackout windows. Try as he might, whenever he looked outside, the heavy tint of the windows would dampen his spirits, forcing him to stare at nothing to pass the time. 

He’d stolen Queen’s latest phone and let the blame fall on a random maid. King had found out before he could use it in earnest, bringing it to his father. According to King, his father had approved the appliance, as long as it was only used for music. Any and all internet access was forbidden, and the whole thing was child locked, prohibiting him from downloading any new apps. While he could certainly just use the phone to play music, King stared at him heavily and disapprovingly whenever he caught a glimpse of the phone. Letting out a sigh, Yamato resigned himself to sitting in silence for however long it took to reach their destination. 

Over an hour later, the car slowed to a stop. King exited the car first, holding the door open for Yamato like an overpaid butler. Hesitantly, he stepped outside, feeling the pure sunlight on his skin for the first time in 6 years. Beams here and there through open windows didn’t do it justice. He took a moment to just breathe, smelling the pure sea air mixing with the scent of the city. Opening his eyes, which he hadn’t realized closed in the first place, he followed King into the building. 

The first thing he noticed when he walked into the lobby was the large sign on the wall, and any excitement he felt at being outside drained out of him faster than melting snow. 

ONIGASHIMA

His father’s company. 

He scowled, contemplating heading back out to the car. Before he could put any plans of escape into motion, he felt a large hand land on his shoulder. He looked up and flinched back. It was his father. Their time apart had aged him considerably. Yamato was taller too, finally reaching his chest height rather than below his knees. His father wasn’t smiling. Instead, he looked down impassively, unimpressed with his choice of clothing. He scanned the floor, noting that everyone else was wearing professional clothing. He crossed his arms and followed his father to the elevators. Maybe if he’d known where he was going, he would have been able to pick out a more suitable attire than his usual loungewear. 

They; Yamato, his father, and King; rode up in silence, the quiet elevator music the only thing breaking the silence. A ding indicated they stopped at the top floor, and the doors slid open. Standing on the other side was a tall, young looking woman. Her blouse was much tighter and revealing than it needed to be and her heels looked entirely too tall to be practical. She followed the group, steps clicking obnoxiously. From the sheer number of clicks heard, her skirt was way too tight for her, forcing her to take more steps to keep up. Yamato scoffed at her presence, trying to ignore her. 

Arriving at a set of large double doors, King entered the room first. Yamato was about to follow when he was stopped. His father used one hand to turn him, forcing him to face the lady again. He was almost directly eye level with her chest. A light blush spread across his cheeks and he turned away, uncomfortable. 

“Yamato, meet my secretary, Miss Black.” He gestured to the woman with one hand, the other a heavy weight on his shoulder, preventing his escape. “Maria, this is my son, Yamato.” Maria Black leaned down, one hand delicately leaning on her knee to make eye contact. He sneered at her in disgust. He might have grown up in isolation but from the way Queen ranted about her, he could only guess what her true role was in the company. The smile on her face faded at the sight of his sneer, dropping to an expression of contempt. 

“Charmed to meet you.” Yamato smiled sarcastically and shook his father’s grip off his shoulders, walking into the room without a word. Behind him, he heard his father apologize on his behalf for his attitude and he scoffed in his head. Like that bitch really cared. 

The room inside was large, with a trio of floor-to-ceiling windows covering the back wall. A large mahogany desk sat in the middle, and a clearly custom made leather desk chair sat behind it. In front, two standard office chairs sat in front of the desk. The wall to the right was covered in publicity photos and newspaper clippings. As part of his education, he’d been forced to read about all the company’s achievements so nothing on that wall was a surprise. On the opposite wall, a large bookshelf occupied the majority, filled with books that Yamato was certain were for show. He made his way to the empty chair and started to sit down when a certain photo caught his eye. Instantly, he jumped up and strode over to the bookcase. In the corner, near the bottom shelves, was a small shrine dedicated to his mother. The same photo that he had was printed front and centre, while a few other smaller photos in frames sat around it. None of the photos contained any evidence of him, but he wasn’t upset at that. Heart aching, he reached out his left hand, lightly tracing his mother’s face. 

“Do you like it?” His father’s voice pulled him out of his trance, and he furiously wiped the tears that had started to spill out. He stood up and walked to his chair, not looking back. “I light a candle for her everyday.” He sounded regretful, but all Yamato could think of was the years of drinking and violence. “I loved your mother, truly. You are my last link to her.” 

“Why am I here, Father?” He had to cut him off before he continued, willing himself not to overthink the end of his sentence. It didn’t matter. 

His father hesitated before sighing, dropping the topic. He shifted in his chair, getting comfortable. “King tells me your studies are progressing well.” Yamato stared down, refusing to say anything. “Queen also tells me that your music lessons are going smoothly.” He scoffed lightly at that. Of course Queen would say anything to keep hold of his plaything. His father ignored his interruption, moving forward with the conversation. “Starting today, you’ll be coming here once every few months, as long as your grades stay high enough.”

“What?” Yamato stood up abruptly, raising his voice.

“Sit. Down.” He sat, cowed at his own outburst.

“As I was saying, you’ll be coming here. This is to prepare you, as the heir to my company.” 

“ Heir ? Since when have I been your heir?”

“Since you were born. It’s your birthright.”

“So what, you don’t even care if this is what I want to do with my life?” 

“This is your life, Yamato. You will inherit this from me when I go and join your mother in heaven.” He stood up, looming over his son. Yamato bowed his head, refusing eye contact. The first conversation with his father in almost a year and it instantly devolves into an argument. The tension that was spiking in the room dissolved when King called out his father’s name. He sighed, and sat back down, regaining his composure. 

“King will give you a tour today. Next time you’re here, you’ll start working with the interns. I believe Ulti and Page One are our youngest ones. Maybe you could make some friends while you’re here.” He refused to look up, straining to keep his rage internal. His father waited for him to say something, then sighed when he didn’t. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed them. King reached over to grab Yamato’s arm and pull him out. 

Luckily, ‘Miss Black’ had already left. He followed King back to the elevator. They got in and began the tour. 

A while later, they were heading back to the lobby. Yamato couldn’t remember a single word of that afternoon, the rage wiping his memories. They left the building, heading for the car that was parked outside. Distracted, he walked forward and was knocked over. He went flying, eyes wide. Hands skid across the harsh, icy pavement, skin shredding under the pressure of his weight. Rubbing his chin where it had smashed into the ground, he angrily looked up at whoever had knocked him over. He locked eyes with a young boy, about his age, reaching out a hand. 

“I’m so sorry about that. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you ok?” His eyes were so kind, it physically hurt. When was the last time someone had looked at him with anything other than disdain and disappointment? Flustered, he allowed the stranger to pull him up, careful not to slip on another patch of ice. They stood face to face, Yamato much taller than the other boy. The boy was much better dressed for the current weather and Yamato felt a twinge of embarrassment go through him at the sight of his worn attire. He laughed nervously and looked to the side. That was when Yamato remembered that they weren’t alone. He stammered his own apologies, stepping back towards his car. The man the boy had glanced at was smiling at him, waving away his rushed apologies. 

“As long as you’re ok, there’s no harm done.” His voice was loud and booming but happy in a way his father’s had never been. The boy glanced nervously at Yamato. He stepped back, squared his shoulders, and bowed forwards. 

“My deepest apologies.” He straightened again when Yamato waved his hands, unsure of what else to do. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Kozuki Momonosuke, son of Kozuki Oden. This is my father.” His hand pointed at the other man, and he looked a bit sheepish at his introduction. Yamato was about to return the greeting when he heard King come up behind him. 

“Ah, Kozuki-san. What a lovely surprise.” The contempt in his voice was the most emotion Yamato had ever heard in his caretaker’s voice and he was extremely surprised. 

Kozuki Oden responded with the same tone. “King. Surprising to see you without your Master around. Where is Shinwa-san? How’s business?” The sharp smile on his face betrayed his intentions. King huffed, insulted. Nevertheless, he smoothed out his suit and placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling lightly. 

“I’m afraid I’m not working at the company today. I’m just here to escort Yamato-bocchan to his father. We should be going now. Pleasure as always.” He tried to turn them but was stopped by Momonosuke’s voice calling out. 

“Oh you’re Yamato?” He hesitated, shame pooling in his gut. Shaking his head, he turned around and bowed towards the Kozukis. 

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Shinwa Yamato, son of Shinwa Kaido.” He stood up straight but didn’t look up, scared of their reactions. Light laughter caught his attention and his eyes moved before he could stop them. Oden-san was chuckling, a warm sound spreading throughout the silence, thawing the tension that had settled. 

“Nice to meet you, Yamato-kun.” He smiled at him, genuinely. A quick glance at Momonosuke showed the same open acceptance. They made eye contact and held it. Yamato felt a mutual understanding forming between them, a bond of kinship. Who better to know the struggles of living up to a gigantic legacy than someone who was living with the same circumstances? They smiled at each other, giddiness reflected in their eyes. 

King’s hand on his shoulder reminded Yamato that he had places to be, and he didn’t want to see what King’s preferred form of punishment would be. Bowing once more, he turned around, finally making it to the car door. As he was about to get in, Momonosuke’s voice stopped him. 

“My dad’s building is right there, if you ever get a chance to stop by.” He pointed to the building on the opposite side of the street. “We should hang out one day.” His smile was infectious and Yamato couldn’t help but return it, still smiling as the door slammed shut in his face. The car sped off, leaving the Kozuki’s behind. 

Beside him, King hissed out a warning. “Not a word of this interaction to your father.” Yamato nodded. This was one secret he’d be glad to keep to himself.

—We Are Made By History—

Jack crashed into his life the night of his 13th birthday, cementing himself as an omen of misfortune and suffering. 

It had been a very hectic week. Yamato was behind on his studies again, Queen’s ridiculous music lessons taking up more and more of his free time. The bit of time he ended up having himself he dedicated to his writing or crafting instead of school work. Over the past two years, a few more maids and servants would take pity on him and teach him some skills to pass the time. He got into bead working, embroidery, sewing, even pottery for a brief time. None of those hobbies had captured in the same way that crocheting and journaling had, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless. Of course, they were always found out and dismissed within the month, but Yamato never warned them. Better for them to think it was a random occurrence than to rightfully blame him and hate him for life. 

There had been a major emergency at the company, forcing King and Queen to switch shifts constantly, and once, even four times in the same day. Yamato was excited by all the commotion. He hadn’t tried to escape since that fateful night when he’d first moved in, but with all the commotion going on, he was certain that he would be able to escape for a few hours. Earlier he had overheard Queen discussing a plan with King.

He was sneaking around, trying to avoid the commotion on his way to the kitchen for a snack. As he was passing by the drawing room door, voices inside forced him to stop. Back against the wall, he inched closer, trying to make out the words. 

“—just saying. The brat will be asleep by then. We don’t have to stay here.”

“Kaido-sama will be furious if we leave him alone.” 

“Kaido-sama will understand, given the circumstances. You heard the rumours. Something’s happened to Joker and it’s ‘all-hands-on-deck.’” 

He heard King sigh. “If we get in trouble for this, you’re taking the fall.” Footsteps got louder the closer they got to the entrance. Yamato searched frantically for a hiding spot and found one in the form of a linen closet across the hallway. Ducking inside, he’d barely closed the door when he heard his caretakers passing in front. As their voices faded, he could hear Queen’s reassurances, but couldn’t make out what he was saying exactly. It sounded like a name but it slipped his mind when he tried to focus on it. Cautiously, he stepped outside. Scanning the hallway for any lurking people, he ran up the stairs and back to his room, snack forgotten. Slamming the door closed, he brought out a spare notebook and dropped it on his desk. He grabbed a pen from the cup on his desk and twirled it around. Finally, he could begin planning his escape once more. 

It was past midnight now. The house was completely silent. Even though they didn’t work directly with the company, most of the maids and servants had left. As Queen had put it, it was an ‘all-hands-on-deck’ situation, leaving behind only a skeleton crew to hold down the fort. None of them were seasoned employees, the majority of them just barely starting out. It was child’s play to sneak past them, and even easier to make it to the door in the back. Reaching the door without getting caught, Yamato had to take a moment to steady his breathing. Not believing his own luck, he slowly eased it open and slipped out, remembering to close the door behind him. 

The feeling he had now was the same one he could barely remember from 8 years ago. Unlike back then, a thin layer of frost covered the garden completely, spreading out on every surface. The grass, still neatly cut from the last time, looked like a large pond of soft white, tempting him. The sea breeze in the air still mixed with the scent of pine but it had hints of a sharpness that could only be associated with the oncoming winter storm. Overhead, angry storm clouds covered the sky, threatening to unleash all hell. The rough wind pushed his body, shaking the trees and bushes. Even dressed as lightly as he was now, he’d never felt warmer. His chest swelled, lungs close to bursting with excitement. For the first time in 8 years, he finally felt free. The thought of his father’s shadow weighed heavily on his mind but he shook it off, trying to enjoy the brisk night air. 

Checking around him for any stray guards, he stepped down. It all felt like a dream come true. The frost broke and rippled as he walked across the walkway towards the garden. He walked over to the closest bush and lightly touched the frost. He was surprised at the biting cold but grinned at the sensation. Running his hand across the branches, shaking some snow loose, he barked out a quiet laugh. Shaking off the last of his paranoia, he stood and ran through the garden, spinning around. The wind blew his hair into his face but he didn’t care. He felt light, like he would fly away at a moment’s notice. Speeding through the pathways, his legs burned, taking him farther and farther away from the prison he called a house. Laughter escaped, bursting out of his chest with reckless abandon. 

Slowing down, he came upon a pond he’d never seen before, hidden deep within the hedges and bushes of the garden. Sitting down on a stray bench, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His face hurt from his wide smile but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Looking up, he giggled breathlessly. This was the best birthday present he could’ve asked for. 

A shadow loomed over him and instantly, his heart dropped. Turning around, he saw the overwhelming shape of someone he’d never met before. His jaw dropped open to scream, but he never got the chance. Before he could do anything, he was hit on the side of his head. Losing control, his body tipped over, landing hard on the ground. Through his fading vision he could see the figure coming closer. It wrapped a large hand around his arm and dragged him up. He struggled, trying and failing to stay up right. Hopelessly, he stared at the pond, crying out when it disappeared from view. His foot tripped over a stray rock and he blacked out. 

—We Are Made By History—

He couldn’t think properly.

It hurt. Why did it hurt? 

Jack.

He’d been having fun, right? How did it all go so wrong so fast? 

A sharp, cold pain bit into his shoulder and his back arched. It hurt so much. He felt warm liquid dripping down and he tried to turn around, to protect his back, but the pain was making him slow. Why did it hurt so much? 

Jack.

His head whipped around, trying to find the source of the pain. More ripping pain hit his chest and he fell, hands coming up to try and stem the flow. It Hurts. He pulled his hands away and looked down at them. They were dark, coated in the sticky liquid. The acrid smell of iron reached his nose. What was happening?

Jack.

Eyes blinked the tears away, struggling to stay focused. He could see a large, looming shape. The light behind it burned his eyes and he closed them tightly, trying to will away the headache that had been present since he woke up. A loud ringing clouded his thoughts. 

What Was Happening?

Jack.

He felt a heavy weight push him and he rolled over, unable to stop the scream that tore itself out of his throat. It pressed down on his chest and he choked, lungs stopping. His weak arms tried to move the weight off but he wasn’t able to do anything. The slick substance coating them made his hands slip and the mass stayed where it was, pressing down harder. A whispered cry of pain tried to escape but no sound came out. He felt the same cold, grating pain ripping open his arms but he couldn’t focus on him through the tightness in his lungs. He could taste iron on his tongue now. How did it get there? Was it even real?

Make It Stop.

Out of nowhere, the pressure disappeared and he took deep, grateful breaths. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, ignoring the warmth seeping into the soft floor below him. 

Wait, what? Soft floor? Hadn’t he been outside? Where was the frost, the grass, the wind? How had he not noticed the change?

Jack.

Was this just one big twisted nightmare?

Something that felt like a thousand serrated knives dug into his back and he screamed out, collapsing again. He stayed there, motionless, as more cuts appeared over his back and his arms. 

His legs were equally as cut up and he felt the sting every time he shifted, trying to alleviate the pain. 

It Didn’t Help.

His mind was racing. He couldn’t grasp any coherent thoughts. Who was the figure? Why was it hurting him? How had it even gotten in? In the back of his mind, the name that had been echoing finally came into focus. Jack.

How did he know that name? Who was Jack? Why had he been hearing that name this whole time?

His senses felt dulled. Only vaguely aware, he noticed the figure stepping out of the space. He couldn’t focus. He fell back into black, leaving the waking world behind. 

—We Are Made By History—

Two weeks later, Yamato was still healing. 

The morning after his escape attempt he’d woken up in the infirmary, whole body covered in bandages, and the sounds of King and Queen arguing ringing in his ears. His eyes were covered, but he could hear his caretakers with complete clarity. 

“Jack took things too far and you know it, Queen. What will Kaido-sama say when he hears about this?” 

“You worry too much Ki~ng. The brat is fine, he’s already on the mend. What Kaido-sama doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” 

“He’ll see the evidence of this incident on the boy’s body the next time his presence is required at the company.” King huffed out an exasperated sigh. Yamato could imagine him crossing his arms, disappointedly. He flinched back instinctively and hissed when the movement aggravated his wounds. Swallowing the cry of pain that threatened to escape, he turned his focus back to the argument. 

“Then I’ll just tell him what happened. Jack won’t ever interact with the brat unless it’s necessary.” Queen sat down, air leaving him in a rush. “So as long as there isn’t another emergency like this, we won’t have any problems.” Yamato could see the gears running through King’s mind at the suggestion. In the end, he agreed to the plan and they left, leaving Yamato alone with his thoughts. 

Two weeks later, he was finally allowed back in his room. Other than some scarring, there had been no other permanent damage. He scowled at the slight tremor in his hands. 

If he hadn’t been so weak he would have been able to push him off. He was sitting at his desk, unable to hold his pen to journal his thoughts. Ready to give up and just go to sleep, he was surprised when he heard a knock at the door. It was King’s shift to watch him, and since the incident, he hadn’t tried to pressure Yamato into doing any schoolwork. Confused, he slowly made his way to the door, using the wall as support when his legs failed him. He opened the door and made a confused noise at the sight.

On the other side of the door, one of the servants was standing there. He’d never intentionally talked to him, seeing as anyone he dared try having a conversation with was usually fired, but he was one of the ones that had been there since the beginning. 

“What do you want?” His voice was flat. All of his energy was going into holding himself up; he didn’t have it in him to force emotion into his tone. The servant flinched and bowed, almost 90 degrees. Yamato gazed down at him impassively. They both already knew that the servant was going to be fired just for being there so why bother with formalities. 

“Yamato-bocchan. I apologize for disturbing your rest.” He straightened back up, adjusting his uniform in the process. Yamato didn’t respond, staring him down with dead eyes. The servant fidgeted, glancing up and down the empty hallway. 

“Well?” He prompted.

“Right,” the servant jumped. “I, well.” He swallowed harshly, taking a second to compose himself. “I’ve worked for your father for many years now. And while I may be able to excuse some of his actions as the head of the household,” Yamato raised an eyebrow at this, “what happened two weeks ago was inexcusable.” He paused, trying to read Yamato’s blank face. “I can’t just let this go on any longer. Please,” he stared into his eyes, pleading, “is there anything I can do to help you?”

Yamato considered his proposal for a second. Here was a man who knew everything he’d been through as a child and had stood by silently, watching as he was isolated and abused for stupid reasons. He wanted to be angry, wanted to rage at him for his inaction, but all of his fury was directed at Jack. He didn’t have any left to spare. Instead, he sighed and leaned on the doorframe. 

“Unless you can suddenly make me stronger overnight, there’s nothing you can do.” The servant’s face dropped at his words. Yamato nodded at his reaction and began to turn back in. This was a waste of time. Before he could, the servant’s face snapped back up, eyes widening in excitement. 

“It won’t make you stronger overnight, but have you been to the gym?” 

Yamato blinked in confusion. “What the hell is a ‘gym’?”

He stared at the large room he hadn’t known existed. It took up half the basement, which he also didn’t know about. Three of the four walls were covered in mirrors, with the whole space split in half. One half was covered in various machines, half of them looking suspiciously like torture equipment. A rack of weights covered the back and the sheer number of them made Yamato terrified. The other half had a number of punching bags and sparring equipment stored in crates. He could also see a set of wooden weapons racked in the corner as well. Yamato stepped inside and was surprised at the texture of the floor. 

The servant walked over to the machines first, shedding his jacket as he went. Yamato had no other choice but to follow him, hesitant at being in an enclosed space with him. He stopped at one of the machines. 

“Sit here and I’ll show you how to use this machine.” Yamato hesitated, not sure if he could trust him. Finally, he sat down. It wasn’t like there was anything the servant could really do to hurt him even more. His arms shook as he followed the instructions but they held strong and he was able to execute the exercise perfectly after a few repetitions. They moved onto the next machine and restarted the cycle, this time working with his legs. 

Around they went, the servant explained what each machine was for and how to properly use it without hurting himself. Within the span of two hours, they managed to use every single machine at least once, figured out a baseline for all the weights and even made a basic training routine for Yamato to start working with. They were taking a break before heading over to the other side when Yamato spoke up. 

“Why are you helping me?” He took a swig of his water, not making eye contact. 

“I already told you why. I co—”

“No, that doesn’t make sense.” He scowled at the floor. “You’ve been working here for almost a decade. If you actually cared about me, you would’ve intervened much earlier.” 

His comment made the servant pause. He held his composure for a few seconds before exhaling. “You’re right. I didn’t care. My son turned 5 a month ago.” He smiled sadly, “It puts everything you’ve gone through into perspective.” He looked over at Yamato apologetically. 

Yamato snorted. “Well, at least you’re doing something now.” 

The servant nodded before holding his hand out. “My name is Fuga. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands, grasping tightly. The two of them moved to stand up, finally heading over to the training area. As he was putting on his boxing gloves, Yamato pipped up. 

“You know you’re going to be fired in a few days, right?” 

Fuga laughed, nodding along. “I know. But I’m fine with that. At least you’ll have the basics down before I leave.” He raised his own covered hands, dropping down into a defensive position. “Now, show me what you can do.” Yamato grinned savagely and lunged forward, attacking. 

—We Are Made By History—

Yamato was 15 the next time he saw Jack. 

Fuga had been dismissed two weeks after they started training together but at that point, Yamato already had the basics down. His new daily routine changed to include at least an hour working out in the gym everyday, usually going over time when he was able to. He noticed that no one ever bothered him when he was in there and that was very suspicious, seeing as Queen would drag him out of his room when he claimed his “musical skills” were slipping, ignoring the fact that he still practiced daily. He decided to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, and made no mention of this fact to anyone. The only time he wouldn’t go in was when Queen deemed it necessary to lock him in the storage room, but it’d been going on for so long that Yamato was almost used to the hunger pains that would course through him. 

Jack arrived back at the house with little fanfare and no prior knowledge. 

“Kaido-sama needs to discuss some important company matters with King and Queen.” He loomed over Yamato where he was sitting in the living room, having been summoned there to talk. “As the only available option, I was tasked with watching you temporarily.” Jack grinned, malicious intent permeating the air. As much as he wished he wouldn’t, Yamato flinched back, body aching at the reminder of the last time Jack was around. He didn’t reply, fleeing the room the moment he could. 

Back in his room, he stood in the centre and spun around. His walls had been updated as the years went on, including more and more pieces of writing, some of his favourite pieces making it up on the walls as well. He walked over to his bed and pulled out his mother’s locket. Opening it, he stood, head bent, eyes locked on his mother’s smiling face. Rage began to build in him. 

Winding his arm back, he smashed the locket into the wall, watching as it shattered instantly. A scream tore its way out of his throat. Vision going hazy, he spun around faster, head whipping around frantically. His nails tore into the papers scattered around the room, arms flailing around, knocking over anything and everything. His blankets were yanked off the bed, his stuffed animal collection scattered. He broke the trinkets he’d managed to collect over the past decade he’d been locked away like a damned prisoner. Books went flying off the shelves, pages torn out and ripped apart. Deep gashes littered his walls, claws ripping through the drywall easily, exposing the brickwork underneath. Faintly, he felt the sting on his fingertips but ignored it, continuing his assault. Red stained every inch of the room, the chaos growing as his emotions continued to overwhelm him. 

A deep, guttural scream cried out, “THIS IS ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!” He didn’t know which failure of a parent he was referring to, anger clouding his thoughts. The whirlwind paused, then died out. He ignored the warm blood dripping down his hands as he brought them up to his face. His breath hiccuped, and he let out a sob. Unable to hold back any longer, he wailed, grieving. He cried for his mother, for himself, even for his father. He wailed and sobbed and screamed, thoughts racing through his mind too fast for him to keep track of them. Hunched over, curled into a ball on the floor, he stayed there, surrounded by the consequences of his rage and frustration. 

Sobs subsiding and breathing more regularly, he slowly sat up, eyes still leaking as he took in the damage. He groaned, annoyed at himself. That was when he noticed the blood on his hands and winced at the pulsing pain. Deciding to ignore the mess that was his room, he stood on shaky legs and walked out, heading down to the infirmary. 

Jack walked in as the nurse was finishing the treatment. 

“Why are you not doing your schoolwork right now?”

Yamato frowned, confused. “None of your business.” 

“King gave me your daily schedule. You should be doing homework.” He crossed his arms and stared Yamato down, disappointment clear. 

Yamato snorted at his response. “Yeah well, I don’t want to do school right now.” He turned his wrists in large circles, checking the tightness of the bandages. They were a bit too stiff for his comfort but they’d be fine. He was planning on going to blow off some steam in the training room before going back up to clean his mess. 

Jack didn’t like his answer, judging by the growl that came from his general direction. “King gave me an order. You will go up to your room immediately and work on school, as dictated by the schedule.” 

He should have just put his head down and listened. He should have been smarter, should have chosen the safest option. Unfortunately, he wasn’t completely in his right mind, emotions still raging within him. 

“So what? What are you gonna do about it, hmm?” He hopped off the examination table, striding over to Jack. They were about the same height so Yamato got right up in his face, standing chest to chest. He sneered at the man, disgust coursing through his body at the sight of him. “You’re just a back up babysitter. If my father actually trusted you, you would’ve been here far longer.” He leaned back, smug at Jack’s furious expression. “Face the facts. My father will never trust you as much as King and Queen. You’ll be stuck as an afterthought for the rest of your life.” Listening to Queen ranting about Jack’s overeager nature at work had paid off. Jack’s face contorted with every word he said, passing through hundreds of emotions within the span of a few seconds. Silence rang out in the room. 

Suddenly, Jack’s hand shot out and clutched Yamato’s wrist in a bone-crushing grip. In the blink of an eye, all his bravado drained away, and he was dragged out of the infirmary. He struggled against the tight grip, free hand flailing about, trying its best to grab onto anything for leverage, but the bandages covering his fingers couldn’t hold onto anything, slipping against the walls and the door frames. All that training and exercise, for nothing. He couldn’t do anything to stop Jack. 

His head snapped forward and he forgot how to breathe. Jack was dragging him back to that room, the same one they’d been in last time. Doubling his efforts to escape, Yamato started attacking Jack directly, trying to distract him for a split second so he could rip his hand away. It didn’t work. Jack yanked the door open and threw Yamato in. He tripped and rolled into the room, a bolt of pain traveling up his arms as he threw his hands out to catch himself. He scrambled away from the door, pressing himself against the back wall. Jack entered the room and closed the door behind him. Yamato heard the latch engaged and his stomach dropped. 

“What are you doing?” The shakiness of his voice betrayed the soul-deep panic welling up inside of him. Jack moved to the centre of the room, reaching down to remove the belt from his pants. Yamato’s breathing got shallower, borderline gasping now. He could still remember how the cold metal buckle had dug deep into his skin, leaving behind the scars that covered the majority of his body. 

“I’ve been told that children need structure.” He wrapped the end of the belt around his hand, securing it. “Without it, they grow up rebellious, becoming vandals and gangsters.” A hand shot out and grasped Yamato’s bandaged wrist, forcing out a gasp. “Queen told me that I had free-reign over you. Meaning,” he leaned in close, dragging Yamato in with a hard yank. He ignored the whimper coming from the boy and smiled cruelly. “I have full permission to punish you, however I want to. You’re all alone, brat.” 

With a quick motion, he gripped his wrist tighter and twisted. It snapped to the side, bending unnaturally at a 90 degree angle. Yamato couldn’t stop the scream that tore itself out of his throat, using what little oxygen he had. His vision blacked out for a second, and he panted, half delirious from the pain. The hand holding him up let go and he fell, collapsing onto the floor. Gasping, he faintly registered Jack moving to where his other hand had flopped on the floor. Without any hesitation, he raised his foot, and stomped down on his wrist. He felt the bone shatter and he fell over, wailing in pain. Jack let him lay there, pathetically. His hands were on fire, the pain shooting up his arms with every harsh breath he took. A whine sounded as he tried his best to stay conscious through the pain. He watched, unable to do anything, as Jack brought his arm up, belt buckle glinting. He slammed the belt down and his vision went dark, finally dropping into unconsciousness. 

—We Are Made By History—

It took twelve weeks for him to regain function in both hands. His right wrist had been a clean break, so the nurses in the infirmary just realigned his bones and wrapped it in a splint to stop it from moving. Unfortunately, his left wrist wasn’t so lucky. Jack had practically disintegrated the bones, shattering them so badly that only fragments remained. Yamato had had to wait a week for a surgeon to arrive and perform surgery, forced on bed rest and given so many painkillers he was surprised he hadn’t accidentally overdosed. 

The doctor told him that he would probably never regain full control of his left hand again, that his nerves were so damaged they’d be screwed up for the rest of his life. He only looked at him, eyes dulled. The doctor gave the nurses a physiotherapy program to start once he got the casts off his arms and left without another word. He’d gotten the splints off at 8 weeks, and had been doing the exercises daily for the next 4. There was a constant tremor in his left hand, but he usually managed to ignore it. 

He’d fixed up his room as soon as he was able to move his hands again. A large majority of the paper had to be thrown out, scraps the only thing leftover. Anything salvageable was put back in its place. His mother’s locket had been thrown out as well, leaving only a small tear in the corner of her picture. He tucked the photo back with his bunny and stuffed it into his closet, ashamed of his overreaction. 

His lessons had been put on hold for the moment and he hadn’t been able to go back to the gym since. His schoolwork continued, but he was forced to ask a maid for help in completing his assignments. She was incredibly nice, but Yamato knew it was out of pity. He would catch her staring at the scars that ran up and down his exposed arms, gaze always returning to the two casts on his wrists. It didn’t bother him. She’d be gone the moment he healed enough to work alone again. 

At the moment, he was in his room, mind spiraling. He hadn’t had this much free time since he was 10 and it was slowly killing him. With nothing left to do, he started planning his escape again. It pained him, having to spend so much time in the same three rooms, to be steps away from where his worst memories came from. Even though all of his previous attempts had ended in heartbreak and tragedy, he couldn’t help but dream about his freedom. 

They called to him. The wind, the sea, the forest. They whispered his name every time he felt a breeze through an open window, every time he could smell the salty sea air, every time he looked out and gazed at the looming pine trees. Desperately, he would call back, reaching a hand out. The chains on his soul felt heavier everyday and he was terrified for the day when he no longer had the will to dream. 

Tonight , he thought. Tonight, I’ll make my escape . 

Queen retired for the night. Yamato snuck out into the hallway and put an ear to the music room door. He could hear Queen’s nightly livestream starting up. He chuckled at the sound, creeping back to his room. Over the past week, he’d been tracking Queen’s nightly routine, looking for the best time to escape. 

Back in his room, he pulled out his best running shoes and slipped on a light jacket. He put the money he’d stolen out of Queen’s wallet into a pouch and slipped it into his pocket along with his phone. Even if it was only used for music, he felt better with it on him. The new alarm clock on his bedside table showed the time, blinking slowly. 1:24 . 

Slowly, he eased open his window and climbed out onto the roof. He slid it back down, making sure to leave a thin book in between the frame and the window to prevent it from closing completely. Looking down, he scanned the side of the house for any patrolling guards. It was empty, only the grass and the handful of clusters of trees. Right beside his window, one of the branches had grown in a way that, if he extended his arm far enough, he could reach it. Doing so, he grasped it with his right hand, ignoring the twinge of pain it caused. Slowly, he transferred all his weight from the roof and into the air, suspending himself below the branch. His left hand came up to help support him, but he faltered slightly, unprepared for the shooting pain. Nevertheless, he managed to hang for a few seconds. Steeling his nerves, he let go, bending his knees upon impact. He dove, hiding at the base of the tree. Body frozen, he waited to see if anyone would be around to investigate. When nothing happened, he cautiously stood up. Fighting down his giddiness, he skirted the edge of the house, making sure to keep all his senses open for anyone that may be approaching. He made it to the corner and took a second to just breathe. He’d never made it as far as the back gate, always being caught before, but he didn’t have any other option. The only other way out was the front gate, but there was no way it wasn’t being constantly monitored. At least the back gate had a better chance of being unguarded, or at the very least, less guarded. 

A twinge of pain brought his focus back to the moment. He’d clenched his fists a bit too hard, so he let them drop and shook them out a bit. It was risky, attempting an escape when he couldn’t use his hands properly but it would all be worth it the moment he crossed the wall. He could see a patch of trees on the edge of the garden, bordering the wall. If he made it there, he could scale a tree and use it to get over unnoticed. He took one last deep breath and took off, sprinting to the trees as fast as he could. All the curtains were closed at night but he couldn’t risk someone seeing him and alerting Queen. His eyes burned with tears, wind stabbing his face. Lowering his head, he pushed himself faster. This had  to work.

Oomph. He’d ran straight into a tree and crashed, rustling the leaves above him. Laying on his back, he could see the stars poking through the branches. When nothing else happened, he sat up and scanned the wooded area around him. No hidden guards, and from his brief scan, he didn’t see any hidden cameras either. He stood up fully and made his way through the trees, aiming for the wall on the other side, going slowly and using the moonlight to avoid tripping on any overgrown roots. Every once in a while, his foot would get caught and he’d fall forwards, wincing when his hands would automatically extend out to catch him. 

After an indeterminate amount of time, he made it, staring up at the wall. He swallowed harshly, doubting himself. Could he really make it out? Shaking his head, he scanned the trees, trying to find one that would work. He moved over to a large tree that had branches reaching over to the other side. Maybe not the best choice, seeing as it didn’t have many lower branches to hang onto initially, but if he hesitated any longer, he’d give up, and that wasn’t an option. Exhaling, he jumped up and grabbed the lowest branch. The pain in his hands blinded him momentarily and he almost let go, but he held on by sheer willpower. Slowly, he pulled himself up, swinging a leg over the branch to sit on it. From there, he climbed up, testing his weight carefully before moving. It wouldn’t do to fall and break his head open before he got his first taste of freedom. He reached the target branch and paused. The edge of the wall was so close, he could almost touch it. His stomach was fluttering, anxiety swelling in his chest. 

Fuck it.

He leapt, using the wall as a platform to get to the other side. Landing harshly, he rolled, forgetting that the drop on the other side was equally as large. He rolled down a small hill and hit the edge of the pavement. The rough asphalt startled him and he sat up. He was sitting on the edge of a road he didn’t know existed. On the other side of the road, the forest he spent so long admiring started there, finally in reach. 

The wind blew through his hair, tickling his neck. He could taste the salt in the air mixing with the earthy scent of the forest. The moon and the stars peered down at him. His hands dropped, feeling the grass between his fingers. Dirt clung to his skin and the moist earth soaked his pants. Sounds he didn’t even recognize came from the forest. His eyes were wide and unbelieving.

He’d made it.

Jumping up, he ran straight into the forest, tripping and stumbling his way through. He didn’t hold back his joyous laughter, letting it fill the night. He spun in circles, taking in all the sensations. Eventually, he tripped backwards and fell hard. Winded, he took a second to just breathe. 

When he finally sat up, he looked around and saw that he was in a small clearing, devoid of the large trees that filled up the rest of the forest. In the middle of the empty space, a small cluster of flowers grew in a vaguely circular shape. Dainty petals pushed through the tall grass, shades of soft pink and white contrasting the deep green. He brought his face closer, getting down on his knees to smell them. Surprised, he sat up again, hands coming up to cover his nose. The smell was so strong! He hadn’t expected that, never having smelled flowers that closely before. Grinning he flopped beside the flowers, laying spread eagle on his back. He smiled at the moon, watching the clouds move in the sky. 

He was free . 

The cold night air lulled him to sleep, and he went more than willingly. 

He woke up with a start, feeling something crawl over him. Rubbing his head as he sat up, he looked around but didn’t see what had crawled over him. He shrugged and pulled out his phone, hoping to check the time. It couldn’t have been morning yet since the sky was still dark, but it didn’t hurt to check. His eyes widened when he saw the time. 4:29 . He didn’t know when Queen started his day, but he always woke him up at around 5 am if he wasn’t already awake. Scrambling onto his feet, he ran out of the clearing and back into the forest. Luckily, he hadn’t been careful in his exploring the night before, leaving a trail of mild destruction in his wake. Following it, he quickly made his way back to the road, running out of the tree line with reckless abandon. Only to go spinning back in as a truck careened down the road, narrowly missing him. He stared as the truck kept going, as if it hadn’t almost flattened him.

Taking a second to regulate his breathing, he stood at the edge of the tree line, staring at the looming wall. From where he was standing, he could see the back gate a few meters away. He swallowed thickly. If he wasn’t careful, the guards stationed there would probably see him, or at the very least, they would hear something and come and investigate and see him and then he’d get taken back and this time he’d really be trapped forever and then—

No, stop it . He slapped himself, drawing his attention to both the pain in his cheek and in his wrists. Groaning mutedly, he shook himself off and stood back up, analyzing the wall. There had to be a way for him to get over the top without alerting the guards. He stared at it in deep concentration, theories flying about wildly. Suddenly, the answer clicked. The only thing he needed to do was get high enough to reach the branch, and from there he could pull himself over. After a quick glance at the gate to confirm the empty area, he looked at the time and his face paled. 4:49 . He needed to get back to his room before he was found out. Pushing down his doubts, he jogged back in a few steps. He inhaled deeply and held it. Exhaling, he closed his eyes, picturing what he wanted to do in his mind. 

He ran out of the forest, heading straight for the wall, as if a bear was chasing him. He ran at full speed, not slowing down as he got closer and closer to the wall. Just when he was about to crash, he jumped, foot landing on the wall, and pushed up. Another three steps and he leapt fully, feeling his momentum slow down. He stretched out his left arm as far as it would go and for a brief, panic filled second, thought he wasn’t going to make it. Hand gripped the rough bark of the branch and he had to stifle a cry of pain that threatened to escape. Maybe using his left hand had been a bad idea. He hung there, full weight suspended high in the air by a wrist that still wasn’t fully healed and a shoulder that felt two seconds away from giving up. 

Finally, he composed himself long enough to throw his other hand up and shimmy down to the branch. Hooking one foot over the ledge, he climbed over the wall and used the tree on the other side to get back down. He didn’t linger, choosing to rush through the trees and back out into the open air. Pausing long enough to double-check that the path was clear, he took off towards his bedroom, scaling the tree in record time. He had just barely managed to slide the window closed again, the book holding it open back on his desk, and slip underneath his cold covers, when Queen suddenly opened his door. Faking sleep, he took deep breaths, trying his best to control his racing heart. After a few seconds, Queen grunted and closed the door, walking away. 

He let out the breath he was holding and rolled over. 5:00 am . A delirious giggle bubbled out of him and he threw the blanket over his head lest he draw any attention to himself. Breathing back under control and laughter subsiding, he uncovered his head and grinned at the ceiling. 

He’d made it outside.

—We Are Made By History—

Two months later, he finally had a semi solid routine for going out. Three times a week, he’d go out at about midnight and stay out till about 4:30, making sure to be back in bed by 5 am. That gave him plenty of time to go explore the forest and even the surrounding area. The must’ve been a factory or a store or another house, even though he’d never seen anyone or anything else out there, somewhere close by, because just down the road from the front gate, stood a bus stop, with a bench that had clearly seen better days and a sign with only one faded number. Using the money stolen from Queen’s wallet, he had been buying passage on the bus. It would take him to a train station 15 minutes away. From there, he’d take the train down to the City Centre station and spend the rest of his time exploring, using the clock app on his phone to remind him to go back home on time. 

His time spent exploring the city was definitely the highlight of his day. He would go into coffee shops or late night dinners or bookstores or gyms or just about anywhere that was still open. On other days, when the sight of other people made him shake with anger and jealousy, he’d go to empty parks and just sit, listening to music or enjoying the sounds of the city washing over him. Once or twice a police officer came up to him, concerned, but he’d always managed to outrun them and go back to doing his own thing. 

He was running out of cash though, so either he’d have to steal some more money from Queen and let someone take the fall, or he’d need to get his hands on a debit card of some kind. Well, I am supposed to go to the company next week , he thought to himself. I could probably steal a card from my father, or that bitch Maria Black . Deep in thought, he didn’t notice when he walked into a dark alley until a scream distracted him from his thoughts. 

“No wait, please, I’ll give you the money,” a feminine voice cried out. “Please don’t hurt me.” 

“Now now, girly, “ a masculine responded to her, deep and threatening. Yamato snuck closer, hiding behind a dumpster. Poking his head out, he narrowed his eyes at the sight. 

“You said you didn’t have any money on you. Were you lying to us?” The man laughed cruelly and behind him, his goons copied him. They were crowding around a trembling figure, the young girl, curled up into a ball on the floor. Two of the men had metal bats, one had a pipe, and the last one didn’t have a visible weapon. The man standing directly above the girl laughed when she whimpered, hands going to the waistband of his jeans. “Liars deserved to be punished.” He removed his belt and Yamato’s vision went red. 

Jack.

He stood up and charged at the man. One solid punch to the face was all it took to send him flying. Yamato blinked. He ended up with his back to the cowering girl, facing the other four men. They looked equally as confused as he did but they definitely got over it faster. The one with the pipe raised it, threatening. Surprisingly, Yamato didn’t feel a single ounce of fear. He raised his fists, settling into a loose fighting stand, guard up. The weaponless man pulled a knife out of his pocket and moved to stand at the front. From his left, Yamato could hear the one he hit groaning as he stood up. 

“What the hell are you doing?” The one waving around a knife gritted out, using the blade as a pointer. Yamato pointed at himself, confused. Was it not obvious? He looked back at the young girl on the floor and they made eye contact, both confused at the question. 

The man seemed to realize how stupid his question was, flushing lightly. Fed up, he lunged forward. Yamato grabbed his wrist before the blade could pierce him, twisting it backwards. Forced to drop the knife, the man cried out in pain and Yamato kicked his kneecap, and without pausing, extended his leg to kick upwards, catching the man’s face in the process. The man collapsed, nose broken and face bleeding. The guys behind him were hesitating, not expecting Yamato to know what he was doing. He moved to the right, hoping to lure them away from the girl. It worked, seeing as one of the metal bats was swung at his head. Weaving underneath it, he lunged diagonally, driving his fist into his solar plexus. The sound of metal rang through the alley as Yamato twisted, punching the guy in the chin, knocking him out instantly. He bent down to pick up the dropped bat, staring at the last three men standing. He grinned savagely. The fear in their eyes was addictive and his blood boiled at the sight of their hesitation. He didn’t have the same reservation. Gripping the bat tightly in his right hand, he swung upwards, knocking one of the guys out cold. Before he even dropped to the floor, Yamato acted, lunging forwards and swinging down. The bat bashed pipe-guy over the head, dropping with him. His left hand came up and covered the first man’s face. His eyes widened in fear. Yamato grinned at the sight, tasting his terror. Faster than he could process, he smashed the man’s head into the wall, a sickening crack echoing through the alley as the man collapsed, leaving a slick trail of blood on the wall. Yamato glanced over his shoulder and sneered in disgust. Pathetic. Couldn’t even last long enough for a decent fight. He reached down and wiped the blood off his hands on the man’s jacket. That damned belt was still in his hand. He snarled at it, but turned away. They weren’t worth any more of his time.

He walked over to the girl, who was staring at him with wide eyes, and crouched down beside her. “Are you ok?” He spoke softly, not wanting to scare her off. She snapped back to the present and nodded frantically, humming in agreement. 

“Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you so much.” She poked her head around him, catching a glimpse of the men on the ground and wincing. “Should we help them?”

Yamato frowned and shook his head. “No, they’ll be fine. If they’re strong, they should live.” He offered the young lady a hand up. Her face went red and she accepted, allowing Yamato to pull her up. As she dusted off her dress, he reached down and picked up her purse, handing it back to her when she was ready. She sputtered out some quiet apologies but he waved them off. Extending one hand, he let her lead the way out of the alley, guarding her back in case any of the men decided to try something else. 

Out of the alley and standing in the streetlight, Yamato could see her messy teal blue hair much more clearly. Her dress was smudged with dirt and grime, and he could see some tearing on the hem. Tears streamed down her face and screwed up her makeup. She was still sniffling, and her body was trembling. Concerned, he gently pulled her by the elbow over to the side of the building. Not really knowing what to do, he hugged her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, enveloping her in his embrace. She froze for a second before breaking down, crying into his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, letting her release all her pent up fear into his jacket. They stood there, letting the air swirl around them, under the light of the lit sign of whatever building they’d stopped beside. Her crying subsided and she pulled back, wiping her eyes to get rid of any remaining tears, ignoring her makeup. 

She looked up at him and smiled. “Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me.” Yamato smiled down at her softly and reached up to wipe away a bit of mascara stuck on her cheek. Seeing her cheeks suddenly flush deep red, he snatched his hand away, embarrassed. They avoid eye contact, Yamato’s hand reaching behind his head to scratch it. 

“My name is Hiyori, by the way.” Yamato blinked, focusing on the young lady as she spoke up. She was looking at the ground, blush dying down slowly. Yamato grinned and pulled her in for another quick hug. Hiyori looked dazed when he let go but she smiled softly. 

“Well then, Miss Hiyori, is there anywhere you need to go?” He looked down, hopeful, “maybe I could walk you to your destination?” Hiyori looked surprised at his offer but not annoyed by it. Instead, she nodded, threading her arm through his and pulling him through the streets. He could feel the alarm go off in his pocket but he didn’t care. The two of them walked through the city, enjoying the comfortable silence. They made their way to the city centre and stopped outside of a very fancy and visually impressive apartment complex. Yamato’s eyes widened at the sight. 

He whipped his head over to look at Hiyori, who was staring at the ground. “You live here?” She nodded, avoiding eye contact. She was fidgeting nervously, fingers rubbing together. 

“Does that…bother you?” He scanned her up and down. Upon further analysis, all of her clothing looked expensive and even the hair clip in her hair looked like it had real diamonds embedded in it. He frowned. She looked extremely embarrassed and ashamed of her wealth, something he could relate to. He swallowed thickly and looked away, putting both his hands in his pockets and leaning backwards. 

“It would be hypocritical of me to judge you for your money,” he mumbled, half hoping she didn’t hear him. It didn’t work. Her head snapped up, eyes shining. She suddenly looked excited, but seeing his lack of enthusiasm, chose not to comment on it. 

Hiyori stepped back and bowed shallowly. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Kozuki Hiyori, daughter of Kozuki Oden. Thank you for rescuing me.” She moved to turn away, avoiding eye contact once more. Instinctively, he grabbed her wrist, loosely, just enough to stop her. She turned back, confused. 

He dropped her hand and bowed back. “Pleasure to meet you, Hiyori-san. My name is Shinwa Yamato, son of Shinwa Kaido.” He straightened up and met her eyes. They lit up in recognition and she stepped closer, lowering her voice. 

“Oh you’re Yamato!” The excitement in her voice was clear and she gazed up directly into his eyes. “My older brother met you years ago and he didn’t stop talking about how cool you were for two weeks straight.” She laughed at her brother and Yamato gaped at her. 

Kozuki Hiyori. 

“You’re Momonosuke’s younger sister?” 

She nodded, rocking back on her heels. “Yup, although everyone just calls him Momo.” 

He shook his head lightly. “What a coincidence, meeting you out here.” They laughed at the situation, voices light and soft. 

In the end, Hiyori was the first one to move back. “I should be heading home now.” Yamato nodded. He stepped in for one more hug before pulling back. Hiyori walked a few steps away and paused. 

Suddenly she turned around and threw her arms over Yamato’s shoulders, pulling him down by his neck. His own hands went to her waist, stabilizing her as he tipped forward. He accepted the hug and waited for her to pull back. Hiyori let go slowly, reluctant to see him leave. She pressed forward once more, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek, “Thank you so much for saving me.” Her eyes darted up to his own, gaze vulnerable. Abruptly, she pulled back completely, and with one last smile, she hurried towards the entrance to her building. Opening the door, she waved at him, disappearing inside. Yamato raised his hand to wave goodbye belatedly, dazed by the kiss. 

His face flushed and he turned away from the building, heart racing. 

The alarm had rang a while ago. There was no way he was going to make it back in time, so Queen was definitely going to punish him for this. Thinking back to the feeling of her warm lips against his skin, he smiled. It was worth it. 

—We Are Made By History—

The next 5 years passed in a similar fashion. 

He had been caught by both King and Queen but if they ever told his father about his nightly excursions, nothing ever came of it. 

His routine stayed basically the same: wake-up, do schoolwork, music lessons, gym time, eat something at some point, go out at night, repeat. It worked for him and slowly but surely, King and Queen started to let up, hyper vigilance giving way to familiarity. That didn’t mean that Queen stopped locking Yamato in the storage room whenever he felt like it, but at least King stopped pressuring him so much. 

Throughout the years, he’d meet people here and there, but he never connected with any of them, and usually never saw them again. He saw Hiyori once more when he was 18, but seeing her out at dinner with her family, smiling and laughing, sent a pang of jealousy through his heart, so he didn’t speak with her again. 

He’d also failed a few more courses, pushing back his graduation again and again. His father had been disappointed the few times they saw each other every year, but he couldn’t care less. 

Jack came around a few more times, only when there was a major emergency at the company, but Yamato managed to avoid him most of the time. Although, there had been a handful of incidents where he couldn’t hold his tongue and got punished, but luckily, it was never bad enough to require surgery again. His left hand had never gone back to its previous strength and the constant tremor was annoying, but he could usually just ignore any pain he felt. 

To solve his money problems, Yamato had ended up swiping a debit card from his father and taking out large quantities in cash when he ran out. Impractical? Yes, but he could take care of himself and rarely got robbed. As the years passed, he got into more and more fights, usually with tougher opponents. He wasn’t sure what he did to catch their attention, but a surprisingly large number of people with a flamingo logo picked fights with him. Not that he was complaining. Fighting felt right. Being violent, bashing heads, feeling the blood seep out of cuts and scrapes, it all made him feel alive in a way that he had never felt, locked away in the prison cell he called a house. 

His father had come home. Yamato hesitated at the top of the stairs, pausing at the sight of him standing in the foyer, speaking to King in a low voice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father outside of the company building, let alone at home. 

“Yamato.” His father called to him, shaking him out of his thoughts. He gestured to his son, urging him to follow as he walked to the drawing room. Swallowing harshly, apprehension rising, he followed, passing King frozen in the foyer. He made it to the entrance of the drawing room and got hit by a wave of deja vu. 

His father was sitting in the same armchair he had sat in years ago, when Yamato’s final hope of seeing other children died. He was nudged inside lightly by the servant standing outside. Stepping inside, he padded his way across the room, coming to sit across from his father once more. He said nothing, simply looking outside and admiring the view. 

The garden was blooming, just a touch overgrown in the summer heat. Yamato could see the leaves rustling in the wind and took a deep breath, imagining that same wind skirting across his skin. He could practically smell the flowers and earth. It would be humid, the warm sea air sticking close and making everything moist. Summer wasn’t his favourite season, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. The smile that had been growing on his face, reacting to his pleasant thoughts, dropped the moment his father spoke, shattering the illusion. 

“This is your final year of high school.” Kaido’s voice was the same low rumbling it had always been, but he was starting to show his age, voice rough and scraping. Grey hairs had started to appear in his hair, and the wrinkles on his face sagged. Even without seeing his father’s drinking habits, Yamato could tell that he’d kept up the habit, the scent of regret and death soaked so deeply into his skin that it practically oozed out of him. 

He nodded, choosing not to speak. 

“You will be taking a gap year after your graduation.” He stared at his father, suspicious. “You will be working at the company full time for a year before enrolling into university to get a business degree. You are the future of this company, and it’s time you start embracing that role fully.” 

Rage filled his body and, forgetting his place, he stood up and hissed at his father. “So you’re not even going to let me decide anything for myself? I’m just a doll for you to play with and mould into whatever you want, aren’t I?” His father stood up abruptly, body tensing with fury. In an instant, Yamato remembered who he was talking to. 

He stepped back as quickly as he could and bowed his head, avoiding eye contact. He shouldn’t have done that. It had been years since he’d seen his father get seriously angry, he couldn’t read his cues anymore. What was he going to do? Panic rising, he completely missed his father moving, coming out of his thoughts when a sharp pain from the back of his head brought him back. His neck snapped back, eyes making forceful eye contact with his father. He dug his nails into his palms, willing his arms to stay still, even as they trembled, wanting to relieve the pain. His father had come closer, tugging his hair back to force him to look up. 

To say he was mad was an understatement. His father was furious, and he made no effort to hide it. His lips pulled back in a snarl and his eyes blazed with wrath. 

“What did you say to me?” he hissed out, barely above a whisper. Through the strain on both his neck and his lungs, Yamato managed to force out an answer. 

“Nothing, Father. I apologize.” Abruptly letting go, his father stepped back, ignoring his wheezing son and he went to sit back down. Yamato caught his breath as quickly as he could, refusing to show any more weakness. 

“That’s what I thought.” They lapsed back into silence, moving along quickly. 

Yamato stayed in his seat frozen, as his father checked his watch and sighed, standing back up. He left, leaving his son where he was. Just before crossing over the threshold, he called back. “You understand your orders?” 

Pushing down his anger, Yamato responded as evenly as he could. “Yes Father.” 

“Good,” he heard him stepping outside. 

“Never forget. You’re a Shinwa. We don’t show weakness.” That final comment made his blood go cold. His father had never claimed him like that, and the implications scared him. 

—We Are Made By History—

His fist warped the ugly face underneath it, breaking the man’s nose and knocking him out at once. He flicked the blood off his hand, glancing over his shoulder. Behind him, a trail of bodies littered the grassy field. He clicked his tongue and looked away, disgusted. 

After the talk with his father, Yamato had fled the house, not waiting till it was dark outside. He knew that the moment he’d get back, King would punish him, but he was too angry to care. Heading to a park he knew was frequented by some low-level grunts from that flamingo gang, seeking them out for the first time, he went to blow off some steam. Clearly, that hadn’t worked too well. None of the guys had put up a good fight and the only injury he had was a shallow cut on his cheek from a lucky knife swing. 

Stepping over them, he sat down on a nearby bench. His head dropped into his hands and he groaned. Thousands of thoughts raced through his mind but nothing concrete enough to make sense. Anger and fear and sadness and helplessness all whipped around inside of him like a storm, fighting each other for dominance. He didn’t know what to feel and it was making him feel worse with every passing second. A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts, and on instinct, he swung, a devastating punch flying towards whoever had disrupted him. 

“Woah there!” A guy’s voice, slightly panicked, cried out as the figure stepped backwards hastily. Panting, Yamato paused, eyes focusing on the man. Something about him was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. 

“Wow, almost 10 years, but you haven’t changed at all.” Yamato squinted at the shape, pieces clicking together slowly. Dark black hair hanging loose, a light pink jacket over top of a white shirt. Kind eyes and an easy smile. All the pieces fell into place and Yamato’s jaw dropped. 

“Momonosuke?” He exclaimed, eyes brightening at the man. Momo chucked at his reaction and nodded. Without hesitation, Yamato launched himself at the other man, quickly enveloping him in a hug. He was still taller so he wrapped his whole body around the other, squeezing him tightly. Momo didn’t complain, laughing at Yamato’s reaction. They hugged each other long and tight before separating. 

“What are you doing here?” Yamato led the other man to the bench, urging him to sit down. 

Momo hummed lightly. “I was taking a walk, trying to clear my head, when I heard people fighting.” Glancing over his shoulder, he pointed a thumb at the pile of unconscious bodies that covered the field. “I assume this is your handiwork?” 

Yamato’s hand flew to the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. “Yeah…I had some…stuff to work through.” Momo hummed in response and they sat in silence, enjoying the evening. 

“Thank you, by the way.” Glancing over at the figure beside him, he made a noise of confusion. Momo stood up and bowed a perfect 90 degrees. Yamato’s eyes widened, alarmed, and he waved his hands, telling him to stop bowing. “Thank you for saving my sister.” He stood up, grateful eyes making eye contact with Yamato. Yamato froze and then looked away, embarrassment overtaking his panic. 

“Why did you do it?” 

He was sitting down again, staring at the empty playground. 

Yamato paused, thinking. “There was no else,” he said, sighing. “If it hadn’t been me, then those guys would have hurt her, or worse. “ He looked down and kicked a stray rock. “I couldn't just let her get hurt.” 

Accepting his response, the two of them lapsed into silence. 

“Are you going to tell me why you beat the shit out of the 25 guys back there, or am I supposed to just guess?” 

Snorting, he leaned back, staring at the sky. It took him a second to find the words. “My father gave me some…unpleasant orders. I don’t want to do what he says, but I can’t see any way out of it.” 

“Did you tell him that?” 

“Yup,” he popped the ‘p’, tone dripping with disdain. “He nearly ripped my hair out.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Momo pursuing his lips, clearly refraining from commenting. 

“Have you asked anyone for help?” 

He dropped his head, clenching his fists tightly. “There’s no one to ask. You’re the first person I’ve talked to in months that isn’t loyal to my father.” Momo didn’t say anything and a tense silence settled over the two men. 

“You could always ask us for help?” 

Head whipping around, he stared at the other, confusion and hope swelling within him. “Why would you do that? We’ve met twice,” he lashed out. “Our only connection is the fact that our fathers’ clearly hate each other. Hell, the only other person we mutually know is your sister, and that’s because I happened to be wandering by in the right place at the right time.” He stood up angrily. “There’s nothing you can do about it.” He moved, planning on leaving the park. A hand gripped his wrist before he could, stopping him in his tracks. 

“I might not know the details, but people talk. I’ve heard enough back alley conversations to know that Kaido is an asshole who can’t see farther than the end of his own massive ego long enough to have a bit of empathy for anyone else.” He was angry, words filled with contempt. “I can see that you’re clearly struggling if the best way you can think of coping is by beating up a bunch of gangsters in a park at 8 pm.” His words were biting but Yamato couldn’t sense any malice in them. “I know that you were raised by yourself, based on your own words, and you’re lonely and angry at the world.” 

He dropped his wrists and stepped back, eyes meeting. “But I also know that you’re the type of person to jump into a fight you’re not a part of to help someone you don’t know. I know you’re kind, and that you’re scared.” Momo clenched his fists, tears welling up in his eyes as he looked away. “Hiyori still talks about you, you know? She constantly retells the same goddamn story of you saving her, of how you acted like a ‘real life knight in shining armour’. It’s so annoying.” The cynical laugh that bubbled out was tinged with fondness.

“You have no reason to trust me, I know that. But is it really that hard to believe that I might marginally care about you, that maybe, just maybe, you have someone in your corner?” 

Scoffing, he crossed his arms and stared to the side. “You’re right. We have no connection, but when we met for the first time 10 years ago, I looked into your eyes and saw someone who understood what it was like to have to live up to a legacy they were scared of. And I had hoped,” words slowing down, lowering in volume, “that maybe, we could be friends one day.” He sighed, tirade losing steam. Yamato’s mouth was wide open, not expecting that.

“My mistake.”

“Wait—” Yamato reached out, stopping Momonosuke from leaving. He swallowed harshly, scared. “I— You’re right. I am angry and alone and scared. I’ve never had someone who genuinely wanted to help me.” He paused before continuing hesitantly. “I don’t know how to trust other people, especially when I know there’s nothing you can do against my father.” He looked down, tears burning his eyes. In front of him, he heard a crunch, the sound of a twig breaking, before he felt two warm arms wrap around him. He hugged back, unsure of what else to do. They stood there for a while, Yamato crying into Momo’s shoulder. “I’m so scared of losing the people I care about again.” 

Eventually, he pulled back and wiped his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t know what just happened.” Momo laughed at him, patting him on the shoulder. 

Momo checked his phone, and cursed. “It’s getting late. I should be heading back home. Are you going to be ok?” The concern was plain as day in his eyes and a part of Yamato wanted nothing more than to keep him here. Instead, he nodded his head, smiling. 

“I’ll be fine, thank you. “ 

Momo threw his arms around him in one last hug and whispered in his ear, “When you finally decide to ask for help, I’ll be there, waiting.” He let him go and turned around, heading for the entrance. Just before he left, he turned around and shouted back at his friend. 

“If you ever get the chance, come around for dinner. My sister misses you!” Yamato laughed and waved him off, sitting back down on the bench by himself. 

As unbelievable as it was, he actually felt better after that. His heart felt light and he could feel a flicker of hope ignite in his chest. Smiling, Yamato turned to look up at the moon. 

He didn’t have the power to escape his father’s clutches just yet, but knowing that he had someone waiting for the day he did made it all the insecurity and hurt in his heart subside. He laughed, incredulously. Damn the Kozukis . Somehow, even though he’d only met them a couple times, they’d decided that he was worthy enough to be saved. He grinned at the thought. They’d be waiting for him to be ready.

Maybe this would all turn out alright. Maybe one day, he could be truly free.