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So it begins like this:
Kai is tiny, and tiny doesn’t pair well with the winter weather outside; his body occasionally feels the urge to twitch, his sweaty palms meet the warmest part of his arms, and he crosses his arms over his chest - not to seem bratty, but to gain some warmth from what’s left in his cold body - and his hands slowly warm up, frostbit palms gliding over skin, feeling those familiar bumps prick his arms - when he immediately spots an adult’s hand reach out to fix his hair from behind. They’re being nice, trying to warm him up, give him love and care, but that doesn’t matter to Kai because along with human contact comes germs and disease.
(When the orphanage nurse poked and prodded at his boney arm, she silently noted that she could feel his humerus bone through his thin layer of his skin, though he ripped his arm away and flinched back once her hand made contact with him. He surveys her hand carefully, pupils running over each and every wrinkle of her individual fingers - perhaps if he stared hard enough, he could see where the germs lie - before a group of adults in white uniform guide him off to a white room that smells strongly of doctor’s office, and is packed with computer-like machinery. They gently promise him that “he’d get a few quick check ups, and then he can play with the other children in his new home!”)
The word home is the new repetition that Kai’s mind decides to hyperfixate on as he watches the other orphans play from a distance. In the past days that he’s spent here, he hasn’t exactly learned what home is - and yet, he decides that ultimately, home is not this place.
The grass under his rear is spikey and uneven, it pokes him through the white, delicately stitched uniform that all of the orphans have to wear. He isn’t fond of playtime, he finds joy in sitting by himself, preferably on a clean seat - but the caretakers won’t allow seats outside, simply so they can guarantee that each and every one of the children engage in physical activity. Home isn’t here, he childishly thinks, because home wouldn’t force you to engage in playtime.
“When you sit out all you can do is watch,” is something the caretakers repeat to him every time he declines an event that involves playing with the other children. He never speaks, he only listens to his peers, and though he prefers to stay away from them - he notices that they speak of home a lot.
And it’s funny, he thinks as his small and nimble fingers idly pick at the lint on his pants, brushing the particles off with his fingertips, that you can crave something you’ve never felt or experienced.
It would be a lie if Kai said he hadn’t wondered about his home either. His memories consist of this: colorful, squiggly lines of his mother messily drawn onto plain white paper during free time, and weakly traversing the streets looking for nice shop owners willing to give him food (he’s found that adding an extra limp to his step will buy more sympathy from said shop owners).
He supposes that he could run away from this place. It’s not home, and yet - he’ll quietly admit to himself that it’s also a step up from the streets.
The boss is nice, and Kai decides that this home is good enough.
This man, which Kai wouldn’t necessarily call a father, and yet not exactly a stranger either, picked him out of any other child. The man is exceptionally tall, broad shoulders, muscles, a tattoo here and there. Gray hair that's slicked back. He’s not exactly uninviting, per se. Perhaps he even radiates … what’s the word - they didn’t teach him that much about grammar in the orphanage - warmth? The tall man radiates warmth.
The man’s house is big - Kai finds it very dizzying and substantial. His little brain doesn’t understand this - why would anyone need this much space for a home?
The man, who the guards out front called boss, lets out a booming laugh - well at least, it was booming to Kai’s still-developing ears - and he says, “You criticizing my house, kid? You don’t talk a lot but your face tells me one hell of a story.”
Kai doesn’t exactly know how to respond, his brain can only process orders that are given to him, which he will politely oblige and follow whatever the adults tell him to do - so in response, he nods - to which, the boss lets out another booming laugh, slapping the child on the back, the weight of his heavy hand causing Kai’s feet to shuffle a bit and stumble forward.
Dinner is nice, he thinks. This food is exceptionally better then the food at the orphanage. The orphanage food was too processed for Kai’s taste and the flavor of metallic can and dusty pantry glided over Kai’s taste buds and he would reluctantly squeeze his eyes shut and swallow the bits of slop, feeling it slide down his throat. Nasty.
(Kai doesn’t notice it as he eats, but the boss is watching him with a certain fondness. “Whatchya thinkin’ about, kid?”
And Kai looks up and stares at him with such a silent, profound gravity, and it’s a look that’s so loudly lugubrious and intense on the young child’s features that it makes the boss want to laugh again. Kai doesn’t quite understand what’s so funny, but he ultimately decides - This man and his food are home. So one day, I’ll repay him.
- and Kai does repay him. The old man would be oh so proud to see what his yakuza group has become as of recently. And when the young girl asks if she’ll ever go back home, Kai turns and stares at her from the doorway of the dark room. It’s beautiful really, the machinery and the poking and prodding of her arms is exactly how Kai was treated in his supposed home.
This is your home, and you’ll grow accustomed to it soon, is what he wants to tell her. It’s funny how you can crave something you’ve never experienced, but now that he’s matured, he’s learned that it will be essential to her growth. He doesn’t respond to her; that’s something she’ll learn on her own, he thinks, as he turns to leave.)