Archive of Our Own

It was fate that they had happened to meet.

Neither of them were looking for each other, but they found another anyway.

Even if they had been expecting their paths to cross, certainly neither would’ve thought it would come in the form of chaos--as the waves grew angrier and the skies turned to ink, families that were far more accepting of these terms clung and screamed and wept in each other’s arms for the final time. Those who remained fueled with hope tore towards the inland, keeping their fingers crossed that they were going to spit death in the face and escape, even though everyone was acutely aware that only a lucky few of them were going to make it. Their children and important belongings were wrapped tightly in enough their arms to leave contusions.

Of course, for those without anyone to love or care for were left with nothing but their greed to spare from the wrath of the sea, which was exactly what one specific man planned on doing.

He had worked tirelessly hard to get where he had gotten in life--that meant he spent a lot of his days comfortably lounging back and letting others work for him, managing to grow wealthy enough to forget the toil that he went through to get there in the first place and chose to dwell on his earnings instead. Only thirty years old and having enough dough to retire already? It was unbelievable, but hell, did he let it get to his head.

That was why he was immensely bitter that he was about to be ripped down to the same level as everyone else when he was obviously so much better. Both arms pressing the case deep into his chest hard enough to crack his ribs, it was stuffed with as much money that would allow for the lid to close. Everyone else was foolish and saved things that were sentimental, such as inherited dolls or photo albums old enough to turn to dust if you looked at them the wrong way. The greedy man snorted as he ran, nearly stumbling over the belongings of some unlucky person who had happened to drop an armful of theirs.

Sure, those things would hurt to leave behind, but money could buy anything. You could buy ten porcelain dolls if you brought your cash instead, plus tons of other things to help you get back on your feet. Then you would be so engrossed with your nine more dolls that you would forget about the single one that you left. Surely the passed grandmother that had entrusted it to you would understand.

After all, every human understood the sick truth that money was more important than love in the end; it was just a matter of accepting it.

That was why he had no idea why he reacted the way he had when a woman who couldn’t had been much younger than he was ran full speed after him, screaming so loud that her voice kept giving out.

The man’s legs had stopped--whether it was by his own will, he could never remember anytime he recalled it. Despite the angry noise that echoed throughout his skull that screeched at him to keep running, whoever she was didn’t matter, she wasn’t important, save your own life and don’t die at the expense of someone else’s; he turned around, hair whipping in his eyes in the high wind, squinting to see through the rain.

“What’s your problem, zansu?”

The woman’s hair had been up in a bun at one point, but hysteria and nature had torn it from its elegant spot at the crown of her head, the thick, black mess blowing even worse than his was. Her eyes were terribly swollen--from crying, obviously; that much he knew--and her clothes were ripped to oblivion. He mindlessly scrunched his snobbish nose at her appearance, still retaining his evident wealth through the suit that he wore, the fabric yet to endure a single hole even after the struggle. His face fell and quickly returned to... well, he couldn’t call it normal; seldom did he ever show any other expression than arrogance, let alone concern. But when his eyes dropped to the burrito of a baby that the woman clamped to her chest, a twisting, tightening knot in the pit of his stomach gave him this godawful feeling that her screaming had to do something with that.

“Please,” the girl wept, loosening the child from the warmth of her torso, “Please, wherever your legs may carry you--”

“--Uh?” The man took a few steps backwards, contemplating pivoting and running onwards as to not waste precious time. He could practically feel the pocketwatch in his breast pocket ticking, the woman’s face contorting to become even more panic-stricken than she already was, her bawling growing shriller and tears increasingly easier to distinguish from the rain. “Me doesn’t have the time for this! Are you dumb? Save yourself; what the hell are you doing stopping to talk to someone, zansu?”

The girl undid the distance he had put between them and held out her arms, the man getting a better look at the baby. Their cheeks were bitten by the cold and the rain, pure skin reddened in pain as the toothless human screamed in fear and discomfort. The man felt an ache in his chest--sympathy? No, he was incapable; he was far too selfish--and swallowed hard, averting his eyes from the woman who was somehow able to stare right through the facade he wore into his very soul with the frenzied blue eyes she owned.

“Please! Please, listen to me!” she begged, stepping closer, “I-- I won’t be able to escape. I have three other children, and they’re trapped, a-and--” The mother’s lip quivered intensely as a cry of serious pain escaped her throat. “If I can’t save all of them, then I won’t allow myself to be saved, either!”

The man flicked his eyes back over to her, shoulders shaking. He could hear the waves crashing together even harder than they had been before, death just minutes away. A glance back down to the baby. They squirmed in the raggedy old blankets they were wrapped in as they shrieked, their arms and legs trapped in the prison of cotton.

“But he can be saved! P-Please, sir, wherever you’re going, take him with you! Take him someplace--” the woman roughly threw a hand to her face and tore it over her eye, wiping the rain and tears, “S-Someplace safe where he can be loved and survive this nightmare!”

She screamed and wailed alongside her child, who didn’t look very old; he couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks, and that was being generous. The man grew anxious. His gaze darted between the view of the ocean that became angrier by the minute and the woman’s pleading eyes. The woman to the baby. The baby to the case that he held in his arms, then back to the baby. He felt dizzy from the constant shifting of his focus, but a furious clap of thunder and lightning broke him out of his trance and made him aware of the rock that shoved uncomfortably against his Adam’s apple.

If somebody had came to him even minutes before and told him that he would abandon every last bit of his wealth, easily dropping it into the muddy street like it was contaminated with disease, he would’ve laughed in their faces. He would’ve laughed even harder if they told him that he had done it in favor of saving the child of a woman he had never met before, mindlessly taking the baby as if he had known it his entire life.

It was the moments after he had taken the boy and swaddled him to his chest to protect him from the rain that remained a blur. He remembered the woman’s tears flowing heavier and her voice cracking in hysterics, thanking him endlessly and wrapping her arms around him in a mother’s eternally grateful embrace. He had been dizzy at the moment the girl bowed her head to kiss her child on the forehead one last time, calling him by his name that the man had been too lightheaded to catch. His memories went completely blank at that point and when he eventually was able to pick up where they left off, it was after he had been running for hours, lungs on fire and the noise of the baby’s crying a noise he was plenty used to by then.

He recalled travelling nonstop that day, the knowledge that where he had been that same day was now completely underwater keeping him motivated enough to keep moving until he was positive he was far enough inshore to protect the two from the waves.

It had been pitch black for hours by the time he finally stopped, resting his back against a tree in the middle of the woods, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He was able to prop the boy against his chest as he bent his elbows for the first time since he had taken the bundle, the stiff pain in the joints enough to make him wince. His spine ached and his legs were numb and his elbows were locked in place, and on top of that, he now had a burden to deal with.

Cursing at the discomfort in his elbows, he continued to bend one arm back and forth as he took the baby into the other, finally able to get a good look at him.

Both of them were soaking wet from the downpour, of course, but that was hours behind them. The tightness of the blankets prevented the air to help dry them, leaving the tiny baby to cook in its own body heat inside the damp fabric. His face was still twisted into a scream, cheeks chubby enough to obstruct his eyes that continuously poured tears. Speaking of, three, thin red lines streaked across his face on each side, nearly invisible by the current cherry color of his skin. The man softly brushed a finger across one set, the baby’s head tilting back with the gentle force. What were those...?

He didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. What did matter though was the fact that the child was probably super hungry and cold and tired and he had no way to efficiently take care of that at the moment.

He groaned, bringing his free hand up to press to his ear as he rolled his eyes. “Ugh, you’re awfully loud, zansu. Can’t you shut up for five seconds?” Obviously, the baby continued to screech, leaving the man’s ignorant words completely disregarded. Maybe he could figure out some way to at least get the damn thing to pipe down a little.

The man frowned, assessing the situation. Those blankets definitely weren’t helping the kid at that point; if anything, it was making his condition worse.

He nearly had to wrestle with the tight knots that kept the cotton into place, but after a minute, the man was able to undo the wraps the mother had made. A moment of contemplation and disgusted selflessness later, he undid the button on the jacket of his suit and slid it off of his shoulders, tossing it into his lap. His clothes weren’t completely dry, but he was sure it was better than the soaking mass that the baby had been trapped inside before. Wrapping the child in the warmer fabric, he held it to his chest awkwardly, never having to deal with a baby before. He became more and more aware of its screaming and his annoyance greatened, patting its back and rubbing its head in an attempt to shut it up. How did you comfort a baby, anyway? Why did he take the baby in the first place? Now he was completely penniless and had something else to worry about other than himself.

Between the warmth of the jacket and the heavy pounding of the unfamiliar man’s heart, the baby’s wailing slowly subsided, tiny eyelids fluttering in exhaustion. The older of the two--by three decades, he later realized--quietly grew relieved at the silence he hadn’t gotten to hear for what had probably almost been a day, if it happened to be hours before dawn. He hesitantly rested his head against the child, who slept against his shoulder, and had no trouble passing out himself. Sure, he was only able to sleep until the baby began to scream again, but any sleep he got was better than none.

Once able to calm the baby, he tiredly sat there, not wanting to move from the spot he was in. The boy’s tiny hands grabbed at his hair, innocently pulling on it with nearly enough strength to rip it from his head. The man yelped, gently seizing the child’s wrist and making him let it go, glancing down at it like he would a beggar on the street.

“Sheeh! What’s your problem, zansu? Besides, if you do that, not only will you ruin moi’s hair, but you’ll slice your damn hands open!”

This was a pain. A real pain. He hated himself for leaving behind his money in favor of this strange child who he wasn’t even going to keep; the first town he came across, he was going to doorstep it and go back to figuring out how the hell he was going to regain his wealth. It was just a momentary obstacle. Still, though, he was pretty irked. Now that he had to start from the ground up again, how was he ever going to earn enough money to get himself to France anytime soon?

He did an internal eye roll and stared the child in the face, trying to bring himself to be mad at it. After all, this was his fault, right? Big eyes stared back, drool dribbling down the tan skin of his chin, flicking his gaze all around to take in the person that most definitely wasn’t his mother. He didn’t smell like her or look like her and he held him on his right shoulder instead of the left. The baby was young, but he had known his mother long enough to recognize her traits. This man was her total opposite.

Yet, the baby had been cold, and the man had made him warm. The baby didn’t understand how; he just knew. Which must’ve meant that he probably wasn’t a threat.

There was one thing about the man, though, that the baby was able to place that his mother definitely did not have, and that was big teeth. They protruded far enough out of his mouth for the child to reach up with a chubby arm and grab ahold of one, pulling on it in an attempt to bring it closer so he could see it better. The man who had made him warm let out a funny yelp, grabbing his wrist again.

“Don’t mess with that!”

The child exploded into laughter, smiling eyes peering up at the man as he outstretched his arm again towards the teeth, stopped before he could touch them.

“Ah, so you think it’s a game, do you, zansu?” The man wanted to be mad, but he wasn’t able to suppress the smile that spread across his face for very long, knowingly freeing the child’s wrist. Sure enough, the baby watched him carefully to see if he was paying attention before grabbing at the teeth again, pulling downwards to rise a reaction from the person who made him warm. The man played along, letting out a cry just to hear the innocent sound of the child’s laughter, the noise making the fact that he had narrowly saved the two of them from certain death leave his thoughts for even a minute.

After deciding that they probably had wasted enough time, the man scooped the child up and swaddled him against his shoulder, slinging the original blankets over his free one. The baby’s small hands clung to his shirt, quiet nonsensical noise escaping the child’s lips as he talked to himself in a language only he could understand.

The man pretended he wasn’t already attached as he continued onwards through the woods, searching for the exit so he could find them safety.

...

The man held the bundle out in front of him, getting one last look at the child’s sleeping face. He had allowed the blankets to dry completely before rewrapping him in those and reclaiming his suit jacket, rocking the tired child until his eyes closed and the man could hear the soft noise of him breathing through his nose. They had made it to the Ibaraki prefecture in the span of a couple days, the man unable to find someplace safe to drop the baby off at in between. (Or perhaps, he had seen plenty, but found small reasons to hang onto him for a while longer.) That day, he had more or less stalked a young couple throughout their errands, seemingly responsible and friendly enough to be able to take good care of the boy, or at least know someone who could.

The man, exhausted and hungry and dirty with sweat and grime, smiled at the baby in a silent goodbye. His chest ached, but he told himself that was just the pain of walking constantly in search of someplace he would be able to rebuild himself at. His neck pulsed as his heart pounded heavily, but he told himself that was just because he had hiked up a hill to get where they were. His eyes were hot, but he had no excuse to tell himself this time, just choosing to bluntly refuse that he wasn’t actually upset that he was going to have to leave the baby behind, because after all, money was more important than love in the end, wasn’t it? He wasn’t attached to the baby; he was just grieving the loss of his money and the baby was constantly in his sights, so he thought he was upset over leaving the child to someone else’s care, but in reality, he was still as selfish and greedy as he always was.

His footsteps were lead as he trudged up to the doorstep, blowing out a sigh and practically feeling the invisible nails embedded in his throat stab at him with each breath as he carefully placed the child there, standing straight up. He took a couple of seconds to watch him, secretly hoping in the back of his mind that maybe the baby would open an eye and begin to cry, giving him an excuse to whisk him away and get to care for him a little while longer.

But he never did. The child was pretty far under.

Swallowing hard and fighting back tears (over his money!!), he rapped his knuckles against the door and ran to the end of the yard, hiding behind their fence. He quietly watched the door for any sign of disturbances, constantly flicking his eyes back down to the burrito on their step, praying for it to squirm. He could see a light in the upstairs turn on and his heart sank into his stomach.

Moments passed and the man panicked.

Strides probably worth two with each one he took, he swiped the bundle off of the porch and rushed off with it, eventually shoving himself into a back alley when he was far enough away and sank against the wall. He rested the sleeping child against his knees and grew upset with himself; he couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t go through with it or because he had even attempted it at all. He swallowed, pouting as he ran a thumb across the baby’s forehead while his beaded with sweat.

He couldn’t do that to him. Not just yet.

...

Another week had passed and the man still hadn’t doorstepped the baby.

They had made it to Tokyo, the man deciding that they had traveled far enough and that there would have to be someone within the city that would be worthy of taking the burden out of his hands. He just didn’t want to take the easy way out and give him up to an orphanage because he knew that a great deal of the time, the orphans rarely made it someplace where they were loved and appreciated as much as they deserved to be. A small part of him felt like he would’ve failed the boy’s mother if he had done that, anyway.

So there they were, resting inside of a concrete tube in a pipeyard, the man’s lanky figure having trouble fitting comfortably against the curving walls so he could keep the baby propped, too. The child was hidden inside his coat, one side of the jacket pulled over top of him like a blanket to keep him protected from the bitter cold. The gentle, constant pattering of rain on the roof and the closeness of the man’s heart kept the baby from stirring, chubby cheeks squished up against the warm undershirt in sleep. The man kept him warm. He was sure he wasn’t his mother, because her hands had always been cold--he remembered--but yet the baby was finding it easy to imprint on the man, slowly learning what his voice sounded like (it didn’t sound anything like the other people whose voices he heard) or what he smelled like (usually sweat, but sometimes, noodles). The boy liked it when the man laughed in that funny way that he did (“ushyoo!”) or when he bounced him in his arms and sang when they walked back from wherever they had been that day. He loved to play with the man’s strangely large teeth, tugging on them and laughing while the older of the two just rolled his eyes and mumbled for the child to quit it; he didn’t ever seem to mind all that much, though, and never actually made an effort to stop him. The baby wasn’t sure where his mama went, but he was content with the man around, too.

Even though he wanted to, the man couldn’t get himself to fall asleep in the cramped pipe for anything, holding onto the baby’s back with his hand to make sure he didn’t slip off of his chest. He noticed all the time how unnaturally tiny the poor thing was; if his pocket was just a little bigger, he probably would’ve been able to fit him in there.

One particular night when he had been lucky enough to swipe up more baby formula without being caught and successfully mooched a bowl of ramen off of a sympathetic restaurateur for himself, he took his place in the pipes and cradled the baby in the crook of his arm, rocking him to sleep after making sure he wasn’t hungry anymore. The man hadn’t referred to the child as anything more than ‘kid’ or ‘little one’ at that point, just trying to focus on finding him a home so he could go back to rebuilding his fortune.

He told himself in the back of his mind not to get attached. Don’t get attached to the baby. It’s not yours. You don’t want it. It’s just an obstacle, and once it was out of the way, things could slowly go back to normal again. Just a distraction. Money was more important than love in the end.

Yet.

When he was peering down at the infant’s innocent little face, taking in his miniature size and the chunkiness of his cheeks with the peculiar red streaks on their surface, the man was caught off guard as he realized

that the boy’s name

was

Chibita.

...

He would doorstep Chibita by the end of the week, he promised himself, as he held the baby with one arm in the bustle of Akatsuka Ward. The boy peered his head over the man’s shoulder, big eyes taking in the contrast of the people around him. He couldn’t see color just yet, but since the monochrome was the only thing he knew, it was gorgeous to him anyway. His fingers constantly gripped and let go of the man’s suit jacket, eager to stretch out his hand. It was a busy Friday afternoon. Plenty of people were around and they all seemed like they were decent human beings.

In particular, there was a young woman selling fruits who seemed to always have a smile on her face, gentle towards the children who ran up with yen coins and shyly stammered what they wanted. Usually, she was charmed enough by them that she would just give them their fruit for free, friendly eyes twinkling in endearment as they ran off.

She was perfect to give the boy to.

The man bought something from her with the ¥50 coin he had found a couple days before.

...

The end of the month. At the end of the month, Chibita would be gone and out of his sights.

The child had grown a bit since they had first met, but it wasn’t a lot. Hair refused to grow on the tiny thing’s head, leaving him smoothly bald. This confused the man; he was old enough to the point where he couldn’t be considered a newborn anymore, so surely it would’ve started to grow sometime soon, right?

It didn’t.

The man knew this because he kept the baby in his care for an extra two months, just to see.

...

The pipes were home to the man, slowly accepting that technically, he was homeless and had difficulty coming to terms that ‘having no money’ was no longer an expression to him. He had to scrounge for change in dumpsters, beg on the streets (he noticed that he would earn more money if Chibita was wrapped in the rags for blankets he wore when they first met), or just flat-out steal. He had only gotten caught a couple times, which usually meant he got the shit beat out of him with a broom, but the bruises were worth it if it meant he’d be able to feed the two of them for even just a night.

He sang Chibita lullabies if he couldn’t fall asleep. Most were French songs that he had taken the time and care to learn the previous years in the hopes that he’d make it to Paris fairly soon. The City of Light was even further away now because of the unexpected company, but he made up for it by slowing those songs down and choosing to use them to lull the child under. His way of speaking the language was horrendously broken, but the boy knew no difference.

His suit now had holes and tears much like the mother’s clothes had, but he was easily able to patch them. Strangely enough, the damage to the expensive suit didn’t bother him like he thought it would have.

...

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into years.

After the man recalled that they had reached what he referred to Chibita’s second birthday--the second anniversary of their introduction--he was finally able to completely come to terms that the child was his to care for.

By the time they had spent two years by each other’s side, the man had the whole ‘homeless’ thing down pat. He knew the perfect way to scam someone out of a meal and began to teach Chibita how to do it too, since the man knew he wouldn’t be able to stay forever . The boy would have to learn how to survive so he would be alright once the man would eventually leave him behind.

One thing that occurred a lot was the confusion as to what the man’s name was.

‘Yammy’ was who he was more than anything; an endearing nickname that he had taught Chibita to call him by when he was still young enough for ‘Iyami’ to be difficult to say. It stuck, but every once and awhile, the boy would attempt to call him ‘papa’ in the hopes that he wouldn’t be corrected. Of course, he was; by a panicked Iyami, who always gave him a nervous wave of the hand and a direction not to get carried away. Chibita’s ears would sear red in embarrassment and the man would have to pretend not to see it, part of him remorseful for not allowing it. But that wasn’t who he was. ‘Papa’ was a name reserved for people who were always able to be there for the child calling them that name; people who were able to afford food to feed them instead of having to steal it like a conman; people who could buy houses or apartments and not have to live inside of a concrete pipe. ‘Papa’ was someone who could afford to buy medicine when the child had a cold and would never have to find themselves bawling and begging on the side of the street for money for a hospital visit when the child was on the brink of death from an illness that had gone untreated for too long. ‘Papa’ was someone who could afford to buy sweets and trinkets and toys all the time instead of only being able to put barely enough coins aside to give them only one of those on their birthday; two, if Chibita was lucky and money had been a little better.

‘Papa’ was someone who a child could depend on. That wasn’t who he was. He was a failure.

Yet Chibita tried to call him that all the time. Every time he did it, Iyami froze momentarily and had to remind himself over and over again that it wouldn’t be right to go by that name. Not only that, but he was terrified of the boy growing too attached and vice-versa. Sure, he stuck around for quite a while longer than he had planned to, but he had to leave eventually. Living on the streets and nearly starving was definitely a huge fucking downgrade to what he had been used to. Once Chibita learned enough to be able to survive on his own, he would have to go home. This was all just temporary.

The boy attempted to call him ‘Papa’ every time he thought it had been long enough for the man to forget.

Iyami wasn’t able to give the kid much, but he noticed that Chibita was never ungrateful. He wore a constant smile on the oddly-large face of his, stretching his stride out to be able to follow in every footstep the man took, seldom complaining about being cold or warm or anything of the like. When he did whine, it was because he was hungry, but typically his stomach was able to be heard long before he ever mentioned it.

Like always, he slept with the jacket draped around him--which he had learned was the color ‘purple’--while the man still wore the other half, the two accustomed to sleeping straight up inside their cramped little pipe. Chibita had only grown to barely reach Iyami’s knee, which made the latter somewhat nervous. Why was the boy hardly growing at all?

It worried him tons, but the child’s arms remained thick and his cheeks chubby, which meant he had to have been doing at least something right.

The reassurance made the dread the man felt over being able to see his own ribs a bit easier to deal with.

...

Another year had passed and things were still the same.

They were infamous to the residents of Akatsuka Ward at that point; incoming business owners were warned by their neighbors of the gaudy conman and the shrimp of a boy that was glued to his side. They were sly, the neighbors explained, and would use a variety of ways to trick them out of their business if they weren’t careful. They would wear disguises and attempt to pull off scams, beg and guilt trip in impressive ways, or just flat-out steal. The last one was what they did the most, the citizens of Akatsuka would sneer, so it would be best if the new residents learnt to recognize the oversized deppa and miniature streaked cheeks as quickly as they could.

Admittedly, Iyami was proud of how well Chibita had picked up on how to get resources he needed. A tiny kleptomaniac, he commonly was able to sneak in, grab what he needed, and leave without anyone realizing he had even been there.

The only thing was, the boy didn’t enjoy doing that all that much.

Despite the fact that it was the only life he had ever known, the three-year-old Chibita found himself bothered that everybody else had money and paid for their things, instead of having to constantly slink around in the shadows and worry about being apprehended. As time went on, Iyami found himself dealing with a more and more stubborn child, refusing to purloin even food, insisting that they get it the moral way. The man almost felt betrayed, feeling as if the boy learned nothing, but tried his best to accustom to Chibita’s wishes anyway. For as young as he was, it was a good thing that he was already somewhat able to distinguish right from wrong. He would just have to acknowledge that he’d have to do the bad thing once Iyami was gone and go right back to stealing, since there was no way for him to earn the money himself.

Tiny and cheerful, Chibita was a clumsy child.

Although dependent on the man who dripped purple head to toe, he wasn’t terrified of leaving his side every day to go off and venture the town on his own. Iyami was fine with this after realizing that nothing was going to happen to him if he was by himself for a couple hours, the two typically splitting up for a day to do their own things. The man was well aware that “good” parents would never let a three-year-old child play by himself--and he got chewed out about it quite often--but for starters, he wasn’t a parent. He was hardly a guardian. After all, he was just waiting until Chibita knew enough to leave him behind. His fortune was on the line if he stayed.

Money was more important than love in the end.

The little boy and the man would meet back up near the fountain by the time that the streetlights were turning on, Chibita instructed to never leave the light’s brightest reach until Iyami reappeared. He never did, climbing onto a bench that was directly under the lamp, kicking his legs contently. Any time they reunited, he would have some sort of new ding to show off; a bump on his head, a bruise on his knee, a scratch on his arm. It made the man’s heart skip a beat anytime an injury was pointed out, but the boy swore nothing ever hurt. He was nearly indestructible, his skull three inches thick and his skin even thicker, taking the wounds as if they were trophies.

That spring in 1963 had especially helped prove how well the child could endure things.

Iyami could recall plucking several bee stingers out of the boy’s skin, using his suit jacket to wrap around multiple gashes to slow bleeding, having to use the fountain’s water to clean the child’s face of gore, dirt, and gravel after he had hit his face particularly hard; how he had done it, Chibita never said. But his recklessness was a quick and easy way to make the man piss himself every time he found him sitting under that streetlight with some new injury he had somehow obtained in the seven or eight hours they hadn’t seen each other. Only a handful of times did the child cry in pain, and it was those times that Iyami found him when he knew it was okay to panic, because something extreme had to have happened. The gravel ordeal had been one of those rare times.

But a couple of scars and contusions were ten times better than being dead. Iyami reminded himself this every time he felt outstandingly shitty for not being able to keep a good enough eye on the child.

That happened often.

...

“Yammy?”

“Hnn...?”

“Yammy!”

The man groggily lifted his head, his neck aching from the lack of support as always. Tiny hands nudged gently against his arm in an attempt to stir him from sleep. He could hardly see through the darkness and had to squint to make out the chubby cheeks a foot or two away from his face, rubbing his eye to try and wake himself up a little.

“What’s the matter, little one...?”

“Yammy, can I go play with th’ moon bugs?”

Iyami, supposing that his ears just weren’t working all that great because of being suddenly woken up, sat up better and put a hand on Chibita’s shoulder to be able to steady him and look him in the eye.

“The what, zansu...?”

“The moon bugs! The hotaru! They’re real pretty right now!” The three-year-old stumbled backwards in their little pipe, the man noting that the jacket was still around his shoulders, and scurried to the entrance, popping his head out. “Look!”

Iyami let out a groan of mild inconvenience, the position he had been sitting in fairly comfortable that night compared to any other time, and stretched his arms behind his head, his back cracking uncomfortably in a couple of spots. Needles of pain shot into his spine and he winced, taking a second to let it fizzle away. Damn, he was only... what, 33? If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought he was an old man already.

“Yammy!”

“Relax, petit Chibita, me is coming,” The man’s voice was soft from slumber, the knobs of his knees aching as he crawled towards the front of the pipe, peering out.

Sure enough, what had to be hundreds of fireflies twinkled above and around the pipeyard, the lights flickering bright enough to dim their faces. Chibita had a smile a mile wide on his face, reaching a thick arm out to try and scoop one up that flew past, but tumbled forward after being brought off of his balance. Reflex by now, Iyami swung out his hand and wrapped his long fingers around the child’s arm, gripping him tightly enough to hold him in place so he could pull him back in. He couldn’t recall how many times the kid almost fell out and cracked his head after being such a klutz like that. (Not that it would hurt him that bad, anyway. Chibita seemed indestructible.) The child sheepishly rubbed his arm, phantom fingers still remaining there from the grip.

“Thanks, Papa...”

“Yammy,” Iyami corrected quickly, nervous sweat collecting on the back of his forehead, patting the boy on the back to change the subject. “Me supposes you can play with them for a while--” Chibita let out a cheer, balling his hands to his chest as he prepared to climb down, but the man held up a finger amidst the interruption, “--A while! Because it is nighttime, little one, and you need rest, zansu.”

“Okay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Chibita threw his little arms around the man and squeezed him as tightly as he could, stealing his breath away as he crushed his ribs. The man laughed like he did, nonchalantly pushing on the boy’s forehead.

“Of course. Now me would go and play now if me were you; moi isn’t gonna stay up all night, zansu.”

Iyami scooped under the boy’s arms and held him out over the edge of the pipe, lowering him down enough so Chibita could gather footing on the pipe below them. The child climbed down, running into the mass of twinkling yellow lights, laughing excitedly like it were Christmas. The man propped his elbow up on the concrete and rested his cheek in his hand, closing an eye tiredly as he kept a watch on the boy. It was almost hard to believe that Iyami himself had been the one that taught the child how to walk, talk, and do just about everything he knew. Every word that came out of Chibita’s mouth was of the man’s effect, every mannerism, every quirk. As he grew older, he would become less of a personality-carbon-copy, of course, but for the time being, Iyami’s chest swelled with pride as the boy tumbled around in the dirt with the lightning bugs.

He wondered if money was really all that important.

Of course it was. Money was more important than love in the end...

What kind of dogma was that?

His. He couldn’t abandon it, no matter how much he was tempted to.

“Yammy, Yammy, lookit!”

The man opened his eyes, not having realized he closed them, and watched as Chibita scaled the pipes, fingers closed over one of his palms. He wore the purple jacket that was far too big for him, immensely baggy sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his hands. Iyami leant close so the boy didn’t have to risk falling, peeking over.

“I named them!” Chibita exclaimed as he opened his hand, revealing a plethora of fireflies that sparkled staggeringly. The man smiled, exhausted, but he didn’t complain.

“Did you, zansu?”

“Yeah! Yeah! Their names are...” Chibita stuck a finger against one and let it climb his nail, giggling as he brought it over and let it off on the man’s nose. “This one’s Un!”

“Un?” Iyami repeated.

“Uh-huh! This one’s Deux... and Trois...” The boy pointed to bugs, even though there were so many the man couldn’t tell the difference. He could hardly see past the soft blinking between his eyes as Chibita kept going. “Quatre... Cinq... Six... and Sept...” The boy stopped suddenly and frowned, peering at his hand. Iyami flicked his gaze up to him, grinning.

“Do you remember’, zansu...?”

“I do! Don’t tell me!” Chibita’s eyebrows pinched, desperate to impress the man. His tongue clicked and his mouth formed silent sounds as he went to say a word but hesitated before he spoke, fireflies beginning to fly away as they grew bored, eager to rejoin their friends.

“R... rrr...” The child hummed, feeling as if this were almost correct. He glanced over to the man, who nodded in approval. After a minute, the boy’s eyes fell, and Iyami realized that was as far as he was getting.

“Huit, little one,” the man reminded, and the child let out a howl.

“I knew that one, too! I swear I knew it, Yammy!”

“I know, zansu, don’t worry; you’ll fall if you get too worked up!” Iyami yawned, feeling Chibita tap on his teeth like he did when he was a baby when the man’s eyes were closed. “Are you almost done playing? Me is exhausted, zansu...”

“Can I play for a couple more minutes? Pleaaaase? ” Chibita whined with his nose crunched in a beg, shaking the arm that the man rested his head on. The latter grew dizzy from the movements and nodded, the boy letting out a cry of victory as he climbed back down.

“Just a few more. I’m sure they’ll be back some other night, zansu yo.”

Chibita ran out into the clearing and scooped more bugs into his hands, laughing to himself again as Iyami dangled an arm outside of the pipe. Maybe they shouldn’t live inside the top one; he was scared of the child breaking his leg if he fell out or didn’t decline carefully, but he was also scared that it would be easier for others to get to them if they were in the bottom set. He had no sort of fighting skills whatsoever and certainly couldn’t overcome most people if somebody happened to try and take Chibita with his frail frame. He had his cane to hit people with if he needed to. But that wasn’t good enough, so they slept in the top, plain and simple.

Watching the child innocently scurry around wearing Iyami’s suit jacket to stay warm made him smile.

Chibita really looked up to him, didn’t he...?

Just like a child would to their father.

Remembrance of his dogma wiped the endeared smile off of his face, dropping his eyes to the mud below, which was coincidentally what he felt akin to most of the time.

That wasn’t him. He wanted it to be--very, very badly, did he want it to be--but it wasn’t.

...

Spending all of those years with Chibita had made Iyami realize he couldn’t leave him behind. The thought would be unbearable.

Which was why his brain pounded guiltily against his skull as he knelt on the train platform, eyes closed to suppress emotion as the little boy had his arms thrown around his neck, soaking the man’s skin with hot tears.

He wasn’t sure what had suddenly given him the gall to buy a ticket back home. It was seven months and twelve days until Chibita’s fifth birthday--he counted the night before--and he promised himself he wouldn’t forget and mail him a gift. Something more than a little ¥500 toy that he could only afford before.

The boy’s body trembled with heartache as he grabbed ahold of the fabric of Iyami’s jacket, gripping it so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t rip it. His small, squeaky voice made the man’s ears ring, but he didn’t mind the pain. He patted the child’s back, the crowds around them entirely ignorant to what was going on as they continued on with their business, loading the trains.

“I don’t w-want you to leave,” Chibita hiccuped, burying his face in Iyami’s shoulder. The man blew out a sigh, fighting back tears himself.

“Everything’ll be fine, little one,” Iyami reassured him, voice low, even though he wasn’t sure if that was true. God, was that kid reckless. Chibita gave him about five heart attacks a day and none were the same as the last, the boy finding some new way to endanger himself every time. Sure, he knew how to do a lot of things himself, but did he know how to dress a wound? Did he remember the places around town that gave out day-old food for free? Would he remember not to play with the fucking wasp nests like he always did, even though he got stung to oblivion every time?

“I-I’m--” The boy gasped for air, lip quivering and vision blurred through the thick layer of tears that glazed over his eyes, “I’m gonna m-miss you--Yammy--”

The other people on the platform began to clear out, most on the train already. Iyami rubbed the child’s head as if rustling his non-existent hair. “Me is going to miss you too, zansu,” he gently grabbed Chibita’s shoulders and nudged him forward so he could look him in the face, the fake smile the man was wearing immediately falling off. Between the baby’s swollen eyes, quivering lip, and salt-stained raw skin, he was a spitting image of his mother all those years ago. Iyami was quick to crack a smile again, trying to cheer the boy up if even a little.

“Me will come back and visit you, I promise.” He reached out and wiped the child’s eyes with his sleeve, drying his cheeks for only a mere moment before more of them rolled down. Chibita sniffled, his voice still quavering terribly.

“C-Can I wr--r--ite t-to you-u...?”

“Of course you can write! Did you think me would say no or something, zansu?”

The child swallowed the lump in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head stiffly. “N-No...”

Iyami noted that the platform was completely empty. He needed to leave.

“B-But y--you don’t have an ad-dress-s-s...!”

The man turned his head back, pulling one of his legs up from under him, hoping Chibita would start to relax a little.

“If you write to me, the letter will find its way to mes hands, don’t worry,” The man found it hard to look the crying child in the face, averting his eyes downwards. He pulled his other leg up.

“W--Will y-y--you wri--ite to m-me, too-o...?” Chibita realized that Iyami was preparing to leave and began to shake even harder, reaching his arms out to rest his hands on his shoulders. He couldn’t go. He wasn’t done saying goodbye. He couldn’t go. he couldn’t leave him behind.

“Of course, little one.” The elder of the two leant away from the child and stood up, resting his hands on his knees, closest to eye level that he was going to get. “But we have to say goodbye now.”

Chibita’s face twisted again and the heavy sobs picked back up where they left off, sliding his tiny arms under the man’s, squeezing him as tightly as he possibly could. Iyami felt the stickiness of the boy’s damp cheek as he shoved it against his, leaving the man to deal with the discomfort of cramped room in his mouth for a minute. Finally accepting that he was really leaving, Chibita let him go, stepping backwards and watching him stand straight up, acknowledging the train’s doors. Iyami looked down and gave the boy one last smile and a gentle wave of the hand, the child’s heart nearly exploding from pain.

“Au revoir, little Chibita,” The man’s voice was small and tight.

Chibita wasn’t able to say anything, too absorbed in his bawling to open a sticky mouth to return the goodbye.

Iyami was entirely conflicted as he turned on his heel to approach the doors, half of him demanding that he get on that train and never look back while the other half of him ordered him to abandon his own dreams to run back there and be there for the little boy he’d admittedly grown so attached to. The child had no idea what happened to his parents. As far as he knew, Iyami was the only parental figure he ever had, and now he was gone.

The man’s legs were stiff, but he stepped onto the train anyway.

“Y-Yammy!”

The man grabbed the doorframe for support, turning his head. Chibita played with his hands, tears rolling nonstop across the fiery lines on his cheeks. Knees shaking, the child opened his mouth.

“Je t’aime!”

His French was incredibly broken, which probably had something to do with the person who taught it to him, but it got its point across.

Iyami didn’t want the boy to see him cry, he really didn’t. Feeling his eyes begin to water, he quickly called back to him.

“Je t’aime aussi, Chibita! We’ll see each other again soon, okay?”

The boy had managed to smile for the first time since the man had told him he’d be leaving that day, a hopeful glint in his eye as he nodded, the doors shutting between them. The child’s smile was knocked right off of his face as he began to panic, bolting towards the train before realizing that was a bad idea, backing up to a safer distance.

They found each other through one of the windows, the man struggling to hide his tears from the boy. As the train began to move, the child followed after it, little legs having trouble keeping up. He was determined. Outstretching an arm, the heartbroken boy reached for the window as it grew farther and farther away, the man pressing himself against it the best he could to remain visible for as long as possible. Eventually, the child was forced to stop at the edge of the platform, the man able to see him collapse to his knees as his face contorted in grief, burying it in his hands as his shoulders heavily shook. His figure grew smaller in the distance until he was finally gone.

It was the wrong thing to do. It was absolutely wrong. But it was too late now.

Not caring who saw, the man pulled one of his knees up to his chest, resting his arms against it as he shoved his face into his sleeves, quietly crying his eyes out.

...

Chibita’s heart pounded against the fabric of his shirt. The past two trains that came through the station didn’t stop. But one of them was going to.

He wrote to Iyami over the past two years. Never did he receive a response, but in the last one that he sent, he asked (begged? begged.) the man to come and visit for a couple of days if he could find the time, giving him a date to expect him on.

Now that day had come and the child’s head spun from nerves. (He had stolen gauze from the Matsuno medicine cabinet to wrap a gash on his arm with. It was covered by his sleeve, but he knew if the man saw it, he would panic. Not that it hurt, anyway.)

The child stood patiently on the platform on the tips of his toes, peering out at the tracks to see if he could catch sight of one. Squinting and seeing one on the horizon, his heart fluttered as he ran to the edge of the platform, watching the windows pass by him to see if he could find him. The train stopped and Chibita held his breath, inspecting every door. On the far end of the train, one opened, a lanky figure in a trenchcoat stepping out with his back to the boy.

The child’s eyes caught the color of his pants and a smile spread across his face so large that it hurt. Purple as always.

“Ah! Iyami!” Chibita cried out, running full speed towards that end of the platform. The man hadn’t turned around yet.

Of course, Iyami had heard him just fine. He was just scared to show how badly he had missed him too. He didn’t want Chibita to grow too attached to him again and he didn’t want the opposite to happen, either. He had just gotten back on his feet. Money was more important than love.

“Iyami!”

Hell.

The man lifted his head, distracted from his thoughts, and turned around, grin wide under his overbite. He decided to mess with him, keeping calm and his feet planted where they were.

“What is it, zansu...?”

But not even a second later, he dropped the indifferent guise along with his suitcase and cried the child’s name, the boy jumping up into his arms and the two squeezing each other tight. After a minute, he set Chibita back down, but the younger of the two grabbed his hands.

“So you read my letters!” He laughed excitedly, supposing that a tiny part of him hadn’t expected to see Iyami at all. He wasn’t sure why.

Without skipping a beat, the man answered, “That’s why I came, zansu!”

The little boy had no idea that Iyami had planned to come back for good that time.

...

“It was the craziest damn thing I’d ever seen in my life!”

“Mm.”

“I jus’ don’t understand why they can’t be nice to ‘im, huh?! You’d think being his brothers and all that they would--I don’t know, care that he was kidnapped and about to fuckin’ drown!”

It took him a second to answer. “Wow, yeah, zansu.”

“Then the whole ordeal with the pans and shit! Y’know, he might be a sextuplet, but Karamatsu’s the decent one out of all of ‘em! He didn’t deserve none of that!”

“...You think so?”

“Hell no! He broke down ‘n shit in front of me and everything! The next time I see those damn idjits I swear to God!...”

Iyami was exhausted. Resting his elbows on the counter and his head in his arms, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open as he listened to Chibita rant about the sextuplets while he made a new batch of oden, the warmth of the broth making it even harder to stay awake. He was interested, he really was; he was just tired.

In terms of money, he had none. It was back to square one. He slept alternatingly between under the bridge, in his van, or in the spot where Chibita’s oden cart went so somebody wouldn’t steal it overnight (fuck you, Takashi the Other Oden Man). Chibita, though, had made it exactly where he wanted to; he had his dream job and lived someplace that wasn’t a pipe. That wasn’t much, but it was hell of a lot more than he grew up with, and he was thankful for it.

It bothered the shit out of Chibita that Iyami refused to move into his apartment with him after all that he had done for the 20-year-old when he was little. But the conman was bullheaded and adamantly refused, proclaiming that he did literally nothing to help out with paying for that apartment so he shouldn’t get to stay there. They argued about it all the time, but the old man always won. Debates with 50-year-olds weren’t usually won by people younger than they were. (He did give Chibita his bowtie when he had bought the place, and Chibita may or may not had cried for three days over it.)

Chibita had been talking for five minutes straight before realizing that the man had totally fallen asleep! When he was talking to him! What the fuck!

Obviously, he didn’t mind. He just grabbed a spare towel from one of the cabinets under the cart and draped it over the homeless man’s shoulders like a makeshift blanket, figuring it was the next best thing to Iyami’s jacket, which he already had on anyway. He quietly continued to make his oden, figuring he could pick up where he left off when Iyami woke up, telling any of his customers that happened to come not to mind him; that was just his dad and he was just tired.

Iyami was glad he had changed his mind and came back to Akatsuka. If he hadn’t held onto Chibita for so long, he wasn’t sure if he would’ve, since the child was the reason he returned in the first place.

There had been something satisfying about watching him grow up and become something great. Sure, to most, a food vendor that lived in an apartment complex didn’t sound like much, but when the vendor had lived in a pipe and starved most of his life, you’d have to say that sounded pretty damn good.

Once business had died down for the most part, Chibita went to the other side of the cart and slid onto the bench next to Iyami, counting the money he had earned that day. The sudden shift of the seats made the man wake up, the younger panicking and feeling terrible about it. Groggily and wordlessly, Iyami popped his arm out of his right sleeve as Chibita apologized, freeing one side of his jacket. The oden cook stopped in confusion as the other man wrapped that arm around his shoulders, but quickly realized that he was giving him the other half of the coat like old times.

Chibita moved closer so he didn’t risk ripping the old fabric and went back to what he was doing, Iyami resting his head tiredly against the top of his adoptive son’s as he began to fall asleep again.

Money wasn’t more important than love. It never had been.

It was just a matter of accepting that.