Work Text:
The first item that actually makes Gakushuu raise an eyebrow is a hair clip. It appears on his study desk one evening, amongst the sea of standard-colored pens and newly minted worksheets to herald in the spring of the year. Gakuhou, like many emotionally unavailable men of his generation, squirrels bits of his parental affection in his monetary gifts. He takes an obsessive pride in tracking exactly what household goods need to be replenished, and then filling that gap seamlessly. A new item is often a puzzle as it is a gift, informing the machinations of what Gakuhou has deduced is necessary, next, for Gakushuu's development. He picks up the hair clip with two fingers, bemused. Now, what in the world could that man be implying with this?
"Does he want me to cut my hair?" Gakushuu spins the desktop mirror to face him, and then he tilts his chin downwards at it, in an angle where his eyes are obscured by his fringe. Then he moves his cheek to the left, right. It's not long enough to be flouting school regulations. Gakushuu holds the hair clip to the light and finds no strange note engraved on it. He squints, and then watches the door to see if there's a camera waiting for him. Then he swipes it quite messily over his bangs and pins his hair to the side.
Gakuhou doesn’t bat an eye at it at the dinner table. Gakushuu doesn’t breathe a word of it, either, lest he gives Gakuhou any semblance of satisfaction, or, worst still, if he considers it an olive branch.
The second standout is the mug. It’s not as if Gakushuu has a shortage of mugs. It’s a staple gift item that everyone and their mother purchases for him: thermos, heating, cooling, self-stirring, ceramics, plastic, hand-thrown, wheel. It’s not something he considers himself in dire need of for dear father to provide.
Still, there is a new one sitting on an old coaster on his study desk, that he sees when he’s towelling off his hair. It’s nothing remarkable, and it comes topped up with a beverage, which for some reason strikes Gakushuu as incredibly amusing.
Gakushuu knows that his father has little incentive to poison him unless he’s found a new heir without Gakushuu ever knowing. Still slightly weirded out, he brings the mug to his lips, feels the steam from the liquid wet his mouth, and breathes in the aroma of the tea. A light roast roasted, refreshing for the summer.
Sometimes, Gakushuu thinks, he's such a ridiculous man. Laughing quietly to himself, he takes a sip.
Clothes, Gakushuu has long gotten into the habit of purchasing himself. Isn’t it incredibly silly for his father to dress him at this big age? Some would argue that one can never get too old to shop with your parents, and his classmates debate whether Gakuhou is a snappy dresser (Gakushuu maintains that he just has an expansive wallet; also, stop saying my father looks good in his clothes).
Sometimes Gakushuu ponders, when did his father stop carrying out such basic activities for him? As he considers his school uniforms, pressed and lined in a row, designed and sketched by the man’s own hand, intimacy lost in the factory line before delivery (plastic-wrapped) to his son. Once upon a time, he was standing on a stepstool to be nagged and measured with a tape. He would fidget and Gakuhou would threaten (but, inexplicably, he would be smiling) to tie his limbs down. There was a time when that was funny, right?
Gakushuu wonders if his father had been taking notes from Ren’s mother - from whom, at least the sort of gift would be in character. It was merino wool, almost too warm to be worn indoors as the season crept to autumn, and not in Gakushuu’s size, as expected by a man who has not bothered him in years. At least it was a cardigan, so it looked acceptably oversized instead of upsettingly ill-fitting. Gakushuu had to roll up the sleeves. “What in the world,” he says out loud to the mirror, and thinks he looks a bit too much like his father (it was in the burgundy color he liked). It clashes with his hair a little.
Gakushuu doesn’t look up from his perch by the dining table as the front door swings on its hinges. His father steps into his periphery and Gakushuu hums a greeting, nursing his drink in one hand, scrolling his notes in another. His father brushes close by him from behind, close enough for Gakushuu to pick up the spice of his cologne, the nosy ass, to lean over his laptop.
Then Gakuhou drags his hand through Gakushuu's hair and yanks. "Oi," Gakushuu protests, scalp tingling, as the man extricates the clip from his hair.
“I hope you’re not neglecting your haircut,” Gakuhou says. He does not sidestep the irritated swipe Gakushuu levels his way, but catches his sleeve, the darn thing. He seems to notice for the first time that the cardigan is too big, and, like Gakushuu is five years old again (he would have been thirty-three), Gakuhou yanks him into place and rolls up his sleeve.
“Leave me alone,” Gakushuu complains, and Gakuhou tugs meanly, popping a button. A breeze blusters through the gap between them and Gakushuu shivers. Gakuhou lets go and Gakushuu pulls the cardigan back snugly over his shoulders.
His father walks away with a hum. "Study hard, Asano," he says with a throaty laugh, warm like the winter at their doorstep. When Gakushuu turns back to his work, he finds that the bastard has swiped his mug. Also, did he make a pun off his name? Gakushuu scowls at Gakuhou's back as he turns the corner heading up the stairs, rim raised to his lips, throat bobbing as he drinks.
