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When Doumeki enters through the garden, Yuuko sees his eyes drawn instantly towards the bespectacled boy in her lap.
But as usual, his face gives nothing away. He simply watches, and only when Yuuko lifts her head to smile does he move towards them. He's heard everything - and he knows that she knows. It's what she likes about the boy. He is far more intelligent, far wiser, than Watanuki would ever be willing to give him credit for. He knows, and that is enough.
But intelligent as he may be, he is still just a boy, and when he nears she senses his silent agitation. Not in his demeanour, or expression, or even in his tone of voice - there is a point when one learns to read a person without observing any of those things - but the concern is blatant in his choice of words. He stares at Watanuki's sleeping for, curled against Yuuko's leg, and undoubtedly there is some emotion, some desire he does not yet know how to express.
So he turns to her instead, and says: "You always act like that."
She smiles and obliges him.
He continues slowly, blandly. "You will let him," his eyes flicker to Watanuki, "choose for himself." Golden orbs settle back upon her, the right one noticeably dimmer than the left. "... Even though that would be the most difficult option for you."
He's reading her. Yuuko is almost pleasantly surprised at the idea. At some point in life, one will learn that being read, and understood, is not as terrifying as it may initially appear. Doumeki is gazing directly into her eyes now, allowing that unspoken 'why?' to hang delicately between them, like a stray breeze wandering, lost, through the skies.
And without batting an eyelid, Yuuko smiles and waves the question right back at him.
"You're the same, aren't you?"
He looks at her impassively, so she continues.
"You're also waiting for him, waiting for him to make his choice." She turns to the garden now, voice soft, almost whispered, like the soothing coo of a mother's song. "You can easily make the choice for him, Doumeki-kun. And yet, you wait."
He bows his head then. She knows he's feeling the weight of that egg in his pockets, light as dewdrops yet heavier than the weight of a thousand lifetimes.
"I can't decide," is all that he vocally admits to, voice even and unruffled. "That's all."
Yuuko lifts her head.
"Even though waiting for Watanuki's decision is what's most difficult for you."
He says nothing. Doumeki has always been a boy of few words. Or rather, she thinks fondly, he is only a boy of necessary words, and there is clearly no need for reaffirmation now. Without a flicker in his expression, he allows Yuuko's gaze to probe him for the answers he will never offer aloud. Still. Silent. Yuuko knows that the name 'Shizuka' has not been chosen for him from pure coincidence.
And now she sees, though she has always known regardless, the weariness behind his eyes. She sees a thousand nights, spent with the egg tossing and turning in his palm, and knows that every time he places it aside - intact, unharmed - that he suffers a little more, alone. Doumeki Shizuka has, indeed, chosen the most difficult option for himself, and she knows, because she has done the same.
So she pats the space next to her on the porch and, after a split second of hesitation, he moves forward to join her. For the first time, there is something like bemusement within those golden orbs. Indeed, she thinks, he is a smart boy: cautious enough to be wary of her intentions, yet at the same time, wise enough to trust her. When he finally settles, his eyes are questioning, uncertain, waiting for her to take the next move.
And she knows he does not expect to feel the sensation of her fingers rising, feather-light, to stroke through his hair.
But he doesn't protest, and despite his initial surprise neither does he resist when she gently pulls him closer to rest his head upon her shoulder. They sit like this for a long while, watching, watching the stars twinkle into view until finally, finally, the tension seeps from his body and, under the softening chirps of the summer cicadas and the darkening night he, too, closes his eyes.
And Yuuko holds them both close, with Watanuki breathing slow and even upon her lap and Doumeki resting lightly upon her shoulder. She holds their wearied souls in her embrace, so young, yet so old, and allows them this one night to be free of their burdens. One night without all the fear and worry; one night without the that wearing anguish of choice.
One night to be children again, to have someone to lean on, and forget.
Yuuko holds them close - her two, suffering children - and waits for their decision.