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The Gojo estate was a large complex with multiple buildings, various training fields, and lush gardens. Standing on top of a hill just outside of Tokyo, it was a drop of civilization in the middle of a forest spanning multiple acres - a small village surrounded by the near silence of human solitude. At its center, the residential home of the nuclear family of the Gojo clan stood sequestered from the rest of the inhabitants by a wide stream flowing into a large pond at the back of the house with only one bridge to cross, framed by tall lotus flowers not yet in bloom.
Except for the early hours of the day, only a few servants could be seen wandering about. They moved in the shadows, with light feet and lighter hands, serving the Gojo clan with neither a face nor a name, a cog in an ever-spinning wheel.
Today the cogs were out and about, running amok to finish the impromptu preparation for the next day’s festival. Tomorrow was the day that the heir to the Gojo clan had been born, fifteen years ago. Despite Takara's vehement protests, his father had been dead set on celebrating his name day and once his father willed something, there was little meaning in resisting it, surrender was the only way forward. A lesson that Takara had learned very early on in his life.
His mother was perhaps the only one who could withstand the obnoxious onslaught of his father's constant whining, though he seldom bothered to argue against his husband. Silence was Takara's mother's usual response to his father's tumultuous outbursts.
His mother had always been a rather quiet omega, living a tranquil and still life inside their home. Sometimes days would go by and Takara would hear not a single word pass through his mother's lips. Takara always thought that his mother had a beautiful voice, kind and soothing in its steadfastness, but also stern and resolute when necessary—a regal bride to the most powerful alpha of the universe.
Still, his mother was so withdrawn at times, that it was hard to tell what was going on in his head most of the time. Takara’s mother had spent almost all of his life as his father’s wife. Sometimes he wondered if his father had taken up so much space that his mother had no other choice but to make himself small.
Takara hadn’t bothered his mother with his rather derisive opinion on tomorrow’s fest, choosing instead to keep his silence on the matter and let everything be decided on by his father. It was a matter close to his father's heart, he had been gone again for months on end, having only managed to show up in time to organize his son's first birthday as a fully presented alpha.
Anything to soothe a guilty conscience.
As he stood inside the engawa, his arms resting on the wooden railing, and peered outside, watching servants rush from one place to another with their hands full of colorful decorations, he wondered when his mother would return from his walk.
On days like these, when his father upset their usual routine, his mother fled into the forest, seeking refuge in the shadows of the ancient trees that sheltered them from the outside world. Takara used to beg his mother to take him along, he would throw himself to the ground and cry, clinging to his mother’s legs, only to be rejected every single time. His mother was as gentle as he could be, taking the time to wait out his tantrums and calm his son down before he embarked on his stroll through the forest. Yet no amount of consolation and comfort could stamp out the fear that would possess Takara in those moments. He would watch his mother walk out of their home and cross the bridge, he would watch as his mother’s lithe silhouette disappeared among the tall trees and the thick shrubbery, his heart in a wrench, and he would wonder if his mother would return to him, afraid that this time around, the shadows would swallow up his mother and refuse to give him back, leaving Takara forever alone inside their suffocating home.
Although Takara had long grown out of his childish anxiety, the memory of it still haunted him at times, starting a race inside his chest that was quick to pass once he saw his mother’s beloved face. It was silly since there was no way that his mother would ever abandon his family, he would never dare to leave them, his father had made sure of that plenty of times in the far past.
Behind him, the shoji door slid open and a large shadow fell over Takara. Before he could properly turn around, he was already enveloped in the arms of his father. He listened to the rhythmic beat of his father's heart and calmed down, surrounded by the familiar scent of sandalwood. His father lifted him off the ground and pressed kisses against his head.
“Oh, Takara-chan,” his father wept. He let go of him and took his face into his hands. “It's only been a few months and you've already grown so damn tall. Children grow up so fast, it's a tragedy.”
“Father,” Takara whined and pulled the hands off his flushed face. He quickly looked around and was immensely relieved that no servants were around to witness his father's shenanigans. “You're embarrassing me.”
“That's what a father does, young man.” His father winked at him and crossed his arms as he surveyed the area, pulling his shades down an inch, his gaze was fixed somewhere deep inside the forest. The playful smile on his lips gave way to a hard-set line. “Now tell me, where's your lovely mother?”
Takara followed his line of sight and swallowed against the sudden dryness of his mouth. “Mother's just taking a walk, he should be coming back any second now.”
His father nodded sternly. “I hope you were being a good son and taking good care of your mother while I was on leave.”
“Of course, father,” Takara quickly said. “I always do.”
“That's my son!” his father exclaimed, clasping his hands together, the playful smile back on his face. He pushed his shades back up on his nose and wrapped an arm around Takara's shoulder, dragging him back inside the house. “You won't believe what kind of cursed technique I fought against this time. These curses are getting more and more deranged, I'm telling you.”
When the sun had set and there was still no trace of his mother, his father's patience had long run out. He had refused to eat his dinner without his wife and had even told the servant off for daring to serve him his meal beforehand. Now his father's hunger was only fueling his ire at having to wait for his omega, a disastrous combination for anyone involved. Though Takara couldn't truly fault his father for his rising ire, what alpha wouldn't get angry at an omega that failed to greet their alpha upon their return from a long expedition? It was only natural but it somehow still irked Takara to see his father so upset. As a child, he used to think that his father was too large and mighty of a being to suffer through the same rage, the same fear as his son, to have his state of mind depend solely on the whims of Takara's mother, but his father had proven himself to be painfully human in that regard. He strived for love all the same and no power in the world could force it about.
Abruptly, his father stood up from the chabudai and paced around the room, working himself into a frenzy with his frantic movements.
“Father, I'm sure Mother has his reason. Sit with me and accompany your son's last dinner as a boy,” Takara pleaded, desperate to placate and appease his father before his mother's return. “Won't you do me that favor?”
But his father refused to listen, he grabbed the white haori that hung next to the door and slowly put it on, patting down its thick fabric to flatten down any wrinkles.
“That's very kind of you, son,” was all he said in return, his back turned to Takara as he stood in front of the door, fingers already curled around the curved indentation of the shoji. “I'll be back soon.”
Takara jumped up to his feet and sprinted over to his father. He grabbed his father's wrist and tried to hold him back. “Let me come with you, Father, please.”
His father snapped his arm out of Takara's hold and gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “Tell the servants to brew your mother's tea, I'll be back with Megumi in no time.”
He shoved the shoji door open and slipped out of their home, deserting Takara to his disquieting thoughts.
Instead of calling for a servant, Takara left for the kitchen and turned on the stow, absentmindedly preparing a pot of black tea, strong like his mother preferred. Soon the teapot started to whistle, and in his carelessness, a hot jet of steam hit his forearm. With a hiss, Takara withdrew his arm and held it under cool water for a few seconds. His wounded skin throbbed something fierce and grew a bright red but Takara ignored it for now, returning his focus to the tea. He lowered the temperature and took out his mother’s favorite tea cup. It was a limited edition with the dog from his mother’s favorite childhood show painted on it. His late aunt, Tsumiki, had bought it from a flea market back when his mother had been a grade-schooler. The years had left their mark on it, fissures ran through its faded motifs and there was a sharp, yet negligible crack on its edge right where the handle met the cup. If Takara remembered correctly, his mother had even once cut his lower lip open on it. In his childish fervor to share everything with a father whom he saw only at far intervals, Takara had tattled on his mother and revealed the incident to his father. Unwilling to risk another injury to his wife’s face, his father had then gone above and beyond to find its replica. The search had lasted for weeks and to no one’s surprise, his father had somehow managed to procure one. However, his mother had staunchly refused to use it and now it sat somewhere deep inside the storeroom collecting dust; the tape on the package was still intact.
“Let me down,” came the angry snarl.
Takara's eyes widened. His mother was back! He hastily put down the teacup and wiped his hands with a towel. Takara ran back into the living room and was greeted by the familiar sight of his father carrying his mother in his arms, cradling his mother's head against his neck with gentle caresses to his mother's wild jet-black hair. His father's haori was draped over his wife and his mother was drowning in its white fabric.
“Not before I've fed you your dinner,” his father replied, his voice light and airy with that distinct playful sternness as he smiled down at the omega in his arms. He wasn’t wearing his shades anymore and his blue eyes glowed in the mellow light of the living room, yet there was something strange about his gaze, it seemed to be out of focus, flat even. “I can't have my precious wife starving after all.”
His father rushed to the chabudai and sat down, his omega balanced on his lap.
“I have no appetite,” his mother said, squirming around, his body stiff and straight as a ramrod.
“But Megumi-chan,” his father whined, pressing stubborn fingers against his mother's soft belly, “there's barely any flesh on you. I can feel your bones digging into me all over.” Then his father leaned closer and whispered something in his mother's ear, grinning like a fox whilst he slid his finger up and down his mother's thigh.
With pursed lips and a clenched jaw, his mother averted his eyes, staring at the lines of the tatami mats before he suddenly looked up and noticed his son's presence. “Takara,” he said, his voice light with relief. He perked up and strangely, Takara was reminded of the brown rabbit he had seen the other day, standing on its hind legs as it surveyed the area from its nest. A minute later, a hawk had found its meal for the day and the nest was left empty.
Takara remained rooted in the doorway and waited for his mother to continue but no words followed.
“I've made you some tea,” Takara said.
“There was no need for that,” his mother replied. Then, a heavy sigh. “I guess I'll have a cup.”
Takara rushed back into the kitchen, poured a suitable amount of the tea into his mother's cup, and served it to his mother, who took the tea from him with a gentle smile.
“Why didn't you order the servants as I told you to?” his father inquired with a raised brow, he leaned back on his arms, widening the minuscule gap between him and his wife.
“There was no need for it and I know my mother's preferences better than they do.”
“Such a good son to your mother,” his father commented with airy laughter. He moved his hand to his mother's waist, his fingers spanning over much of his mother's stomach and buttock. His grip tightened and his fingertips sunk into his mother's skin. Somehow, Takara's eyes were stuck on how the silky cloth bundled up and folded under the pressure his father applied.
“He is,” his mother quietly acquiesced. After taking a small sip from the teacup, his mother lowered it to the chabudai and then neatly folded his hands over his lap, brushing against his father’s fingers as he did so.
His father raised his hand and brought it down upon the chabudai with enough force to rattle the table, the tea whipped from one edge to the other and some of it spilled over, pouring down onto the small coaster. Despite the years of experience his mother had with his father’s eccentric ways, he still managed to get scared at sudden movements or sudden rises in volume, so much so that he would flinch and shirk away from him. His mother glared at his father and picked up the teacup to wipe away the spilled moisture from its surface with the hem of his black robe.
“I have some great news to share with you,” his father started, deliberately pausing his animated speech to build enough tension in his audience of two. “From tomorrow on, I’m on vacation.”
His mother, in his shock, dropped the teacup but his father, with his all-seeing eyes, caught it before it could hit the ground and shatter. “For how long?” his mother asked as he carefully put down the teacup back on the chabudai, though he passed the coaster by and placed it directly on the wooden surface of the table.
His father grabbed his mother by his chin and turned his face towards him, brushing his thumb against moist lips, still glistening from the tea. He placed a kiss against those lips, once, twice, and some more, and his mother took them all in stride, waiting for an answer. “Let’s just say that you’ll be able to enjoy my continuous attention for a long, long time. I’ll spend this summer doing nothing but lathering my wife with all my love.”
Takara’s eyes immediately fell on his mother, zeroing in on his stricken countenance, before he redirected his focus to his father. “That’s great,” he said with a smile. “How did you manage to get the higher-ups off your shoulder?”
“Well, it was time to put my foot down. And as you might know, I do not receive orders, only propositions and I may accept or reject them as I please.” He shrugged his shoulders and placed another kiss on his mother's face before he nuzzled into his mother's neck, dragging his nose right over the bite mark he had left over a decade ago.
His mother lowered his head and his face fell into shadow, evading Takara's curious eyes as his father started to nibble at the skin of his neck. “That's enough,” his mother snapped at his husband. It was almost a whisper but there was still so much ferocity behind his words that Takara couldn't call it as such. Then, with sudden mellowness, as if to appease a conceived slight, a soft-spoken, quiet 'Please’ followed his mother's small outburst.
For once, his father surrendered to his mother's bid and ceased his harassment. His father called upon the servants who then brought them their meal for the day and the rest of their dinner was spent in silence neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Father and son ate with gusto and his mother watched on, shoving his cut of beef from one end of the plate to the other, his head still averted.
Tomorrow was his birthday and a festival was to be held in his name but Takara felt that it had never mattered less. He had been completely overshadowed by his father's return.
It was a quarter before midnight when Takara woke up from his fitful slumber with a painfully parched throat. He stood up from his bed and stretched his limbs before he scurried to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The door was already slightly open and Takara slipped through the gap. He was greeted by an unusual sight. His mother, illuminated by the gentle glow of the moon ushering inside from the window, was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing only a white, almost translucent hadajuban. It was so loosely tied that it revealed most of his mother's chest and even a sliver of his stomach, showing much of his mother's pale, milky skin, though most of it was littered with bites and red spots, especially around the neck and chest. His mother appeared ravished, his hair was even more in disarray than usual. And the omega scent of his mother, a gentle, purifying petrichor, was completely overshadowed by his father's sandalwood. He stunk of alpha now. Takara bit down on his lip and shook his head, his blood rushing past his ears as he balled his hands into fists.
His father was truly a bottomless pit of lust when it came to his mother and he never cared enough to conceal this part of himself from his son. Sometimes Takara couldn't help but think that his father was taunting him, staking a claim over his mother, defending a territory that Takara had never had the intention to conquer.
Once Takara had collected himself, he averted his eyes and stumbled his way out of the kitchen. And he would have rushed back into his bedroom, but yet his mother called out for him and Takara couldn't refuse him, not when he could hear the worry and shame in his mother's voice. He returned to the kitchen, waited a second before he entered through the door, and stood still next to the window, the cool wall at his back.
His mother had tied his robe properly now and had even rolled down his sleeves. He looked up at Takara with tired eyes and feigned a smile at him. “Couldn't sleep?”
Takara nodded. “I was just thirsty,” he added as he remembered why he had come to the kitchen in the first place.
His mother stood up then and took a glass out of the cabinet. He poured some water into it and gave it to Takara. “Here,” he said and sat back down on the kitchen table, staring at nothing in particular as he fell back to whatever thoughts had him brooding alone close to midnight. His mother had a severe disposition to lose himself to his melancholy. He was a nostalgic soul, always looking back upon the past, seeking comfort in memories of his late sister. A measly childhood of only a few, short years before his family had come and taken it all from him.
Takara took the glass, jaw clenched tight and eyes closed as he tried to drive those thoughts away. “Thank you,” he pressed out and quickly emptied the glass. He put it down on the counter and was just about to clean it when his mother stood up and slapped his hand before he could grab the sponge from the sink.
“You should go back to bed and get some sleep. Tomorrow is an important day for you and your father,” his mother explained as he cleaned Takara's glass.
“Whatever,” Takara bit back with more force than he wanted to. He grimaced and approached his mother, hugging him from behind to quil down his rising remorse. They didn't do it often, mother and son, not since he had presented, and sometimes he missed the times before when everything had been a little less complicated, a little less serious and his father hadn't looked upon him with the eyes of a contender whenever he got too close to his mother.
Just a year ago, Takara hadn't even reached his mother's shoulder and now his head hovered above his mother. They were both getting older and once that thought crossed his mind, he tightened his arms where he had them wrapped around his mother's stomach.
“I'll be fifteen tomorrow,” Takara said once his mother was done with the dishes and had weaseled his way out of his son's embrace.
“I know.”
“I'll start going to Jujutsu High.”
“You will.”
“I'll be going on missions.”
“Yes.”
“I'll have to move out then.”
His mother nodded. He tapped the table and shoved the other chair from the table. “Come.”
Takara nodded and sat down across from his mother.
“What did you do on your fifteenth birthday?” he asked and regretted it almost immediately, knowing that he was only scratching over old wounds.
However, his mother only smiled at him, it was just a quirk of his mouth, but it was there all the same.
“I was pregnant with you,” his mother answered. He put his hand on his flat stomach and gently patted it. “Your father had just come back from a mission. There were a lot of disturbances during that time, curses were acting up all across the country and one sorcerer after the other fell. A bleak time. I think I never saw less of your father than I did that year. He was always gone and he was tired whenever he came back. I felt left behind and overwhelmed. I feared that I would have to raise you all by myself. As you must know by now, I never knew my parents. My mother died when I was just an infant and my father left me so early on in my life that I cannot even remember his face. When the Zen'in clan took me in, I thought that I had finally found a home for me and my sister, but I soon learned that sharing blood alone did not make one a family. I was only a bargaining chip between two warring clans; in the end, the Gojo clan triumphed in their endless negotiations. The clan elders gave me to your father when I was just six years old and a few years later, with the onset of my first heat, I became his bride. I hold almost no memories in which I do not know him. He was as much of a father to me as he is to you. You know, I was your age when I gave birth to you. A fifteen-year-old with a newborn in his arms, trying his best to nurse his son. But what should have I done? Your father needed an heir and I was his freshly wedded bride.” His mother paused. “Oh my, I seem to have lost the thread. Well, as I said, on my fifteenth birthday, I was pregnant and your father had just come back from a very important and very long mission. He came and took me with him to one of our beach houses and spent an entire week with me.”
“You must have felt lonely.”
“I did,” his mother agreed, and his eyes grew dark. “But so did your father.”
“There's just something I never understood,” Takara started, emboldened now that his mother had opened up to him. It happened so seldom that his mother spoke this freely to him that Takara felt that he had to make the most of it. “Why didn't you learn how to fight? Why didn't you go to Jujutsu High? Father could have taught you everything himself and you could have both gone on missions together. You wouldn't have to stay back here all the time. You could have had life outside these four walls, so why?”
His mother's face was aghast as he looked upon him, his eyes wide with surprise.
“You have Ten Shadows, don't you? You could have been as powerful as Father, but you chose not to, why?”
His mother's nose flared as he took a deep breath. He stood up abruptly. The chair fell back and tipped over with a loud thud.
“You surprise me, son,” his mother said, staring down at him, his outline stark in the white moonlight. What Takara had thought to be anger was just disappointment. “You speak of choice and I ask you. When have I ever chosen something?”
His mother turned his back to him and looked out of the window, somewhere off into the forest. “My ambitions, my dreams, they may have never been as grand and audacious as yours or your father's, but I longed to fulfill them all the same.”
“What did you dream of, Mother?” Takara asked in a small voice.
“In my dreams, my sister lives on, unharmed by the calamities of this world, and she’s with me and I’m with her, always.” His mother let out a sigh and turned back towards him. Takara had expected his mother’s face to be aggrieved somewhat, but he wore a rather neutral expression. “I better return to your father, I’m sure he’s awake by now. You should go as well as there will be no rest for you tomorrow and the days after.”
Takara nodded and stood up.
Before they left the kitchen, his mother threw a glance at the clock that hung over the door.
With a smile, his mother turned to him.
“Happy birthday, son, may you live a life full of choices.”