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When he first sees him, he wants to throw up.
Not figuratively—literally. He wants to double over and violently empty his guts across the pavement: his breakfast, his nerves, his entire bloodstream, if that’s what it takes to stomach the fact that this kid looks just like him.
Toji’s never been religious. He’s said that a hundred times, mostly to people who still are. He finds it ironic, really, considering that he should be comfortable with believing what he cannot see. But if there is something greater than himself (which he knows there is, because he cannot be as good as it gets), he hopes it’ll have the decency to strike him down where he stands. Because he’s too proud to let someone in his own family do it.
He wouldn’t call it disgust. Just regret.
Toji’s not completely dense. He knows, to some degree, that when you see your kid for the first time, your first thought shouldn’t be, “Damn it, I should’ve worn a condom.”
But maybe that kind of thing runs in the family.
His father hadn’t wanted him, and now here he was—not wanting this one.
Toji looks down at the baby in his arms and frowns, feeling the scar on his lip pull tight.
Megumi.
What the hell kind of name was that, anyway?
He shrugs.
To be fair, the kid does sort of look like a girl if you stare long enough, with long lashes and a round face.
———-
Toji was born on December 31.
People like to pretend that it means something. That it’s symbolic—an ending and a beginning stitched together in neat, poetic symmetry. He doesn’t know what that says about him.
He just knows it was cold.
Being born on a clan estate is an odd experience. It’s flat and invasive—open to almost anyone who chooses to be there.
His father wasn’t in the room, and Toji chooses not to take it too personally. He really wouldn’t have wanted to be there either.
He knows that his mother wasn’t the first one to hold him. That unfortunate task had been given to the staff. And he knows she wasn’t the first person to look at him either.
From what he’s been told, Jinichi was.
Toji doesn’t have a fully formed opinion of his older brother. Most likely, he never will.
But he knows that he stood on his tippy toes and leaned over his crib, staring at his baby brother for hours. He partly believes that it’s because Jinichi was the only person at the time to not catch on to the fact that his baby brother was completely useless. For those few short hours, Toji was admired—for most likely the only time in his life. Maybe even loved, before it was made aware that his new brother wasn’t much to be proud of at all.
It was either that, or he was surprised at how small Toji was, because Jinichi was easily the fattest fucking baby that clan had ever seen, and just assumed that Toji would follow suit.
He did not.
He was small by comparison, and he looked like his mother: dark eyes and even darker hair.
He thinks he would’ve made a pretty girl.
⸻
Megumi doesn’t smile, and Toji finds this pretty odd.
He knows there’s nothing particularly funny or interesting about being a baby. But Jesus, this kid could be teething, and Toji would’ve never known.
He never cries much either. Just stares—big eyes, blank face, the kind of look that makes Toji feel like he’s the one being studied. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe Megumi already figured out that his old man’s not much to laugh about.
They’re sitting on the floor now, staring at each other. Megumi’s still learning how to sit up on his own, so Toji props him up with couch pillows. It’s a clumsy setup, but it works. Every few seconds, the kid wobbles forward and catches himself with his little hands.
“You don’t do much.”
Silence. Of course.
“What’re you thinking about?”
Nothing.
Toji points his finger out and pokes his stomach.
“You’ve got a big-ass head… like your mommy.”
Megumi blinks. That’s it. Maybe frowns. He couldn’t tell dislike from his son’s usual expression.
He stays like that for a while, watching. The kid shifts, leans too far back, and topples into the nest of pillows with a soft grunt. For a second, Toji thinks about leaving him there—seeing if he’ll figure it out himself—but Megumi’s arms start flailing, legs kicking in that slow, uncoordinated way babies do.
Toji exhales through his nose.
He sighs, scoops him up, and sets him upright again.
As Megumi’s grown—from a fat, squirming bundle to something that actually resembles a baby—it’s become clearer that his mother was his mother. The kid’s got her face in ways Toji can’t even put words to. The eyes, the shape of his mouth—all soft edges and symmetry where Toji’s got sharp lines.
Megumi’s a pretty boy.
He looks like his dad, sure, but only in the bones. Everything else is gentler. Like someone took Toji’s reflection and sanded it down until it didn’t hurt to look at.
Megumi clings onto Toji’s shirt, babbling something incoherent because, well, he’s a baby.
Toji wraps a lock of Megumi’s seemingly untamable hair around his finger because it’s oddly familiar, and he can’t help but miss her.
It makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t like.
And all he has left of her is her big-headed baby.
⸻
The first thing he wants to do when he sees her is kiss her.
Toji’s never been a particularly possessive man. Never had much to be actually possessive of.
But he wants her in an all-consuming way that actually aggravates him.
She looks at him from across the small restaurant and grins, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that. So he just makes a face—something halfway between polite and unsure.
She’s one of those naturally cute waiters. She’s petite by nature, but she doesn’t come across as small. Toji’s not sure if that makes any kind of sense, but she’s a lot. Very much “there,” and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.
She giggles. “Cute smile.” It’s a tease—he knows.
And he’s done for.
“Well, I think you’re pretty cute.”
Toji’s only eighteen and doesn’t know the first thing about telling a pretty girl that she’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
She snickers.
“Lame.”
He loves her. He knows.
———
The first baby—well… child—Toji ever really interacted with was Naoya Zenin.
And, if he’s being honest, he didn’t have much say in the matter.
He was fourteen and a half when Naoya was born.
Babies came and went in the Zen’in compound the way seasons did—arriving quietly, announced with ceremony, then absorbed into the structure of the place. Toji rarely paid attention until one was suddenly there, fully formed and loud.
Naoya was the youngest of his brothers. All boys. But he was also the favorite, which almost made up for the unfair birthing order he’d been born into.
Toji didn’t really want to be around Naoya. He tended to be preoccupied with killing things—or with things attempting to kill him. But, God, the little shit loved following him around.
Tiny footsteps echoing down wooden halls.
Sticky hands grabbing at his sleeve.
Big, arrogant eyes already narrowing.
Naoya adored him.
Toji never understood why.
Maybe kids are just drawn to what they shouldn’t have.
“Toji. Toji. Toji.”
The kid tugs at his pant leg with both fists, relentless. Over and over again.
Toji keeps walking.
Naoya refuses to let go, so he ends up half-dragging him down the corridor, tiny heels skidding uselessly against the wood. He doesn’t even protest the friction burn to his pride—just clings tighter, determined.
“Not tired yet?” Toji mutters without looking down.
Naoya beams up at him.
Toji isn’t sure where he’s supposed to be. With an attendant, maybe. Maybe his mother. But he’s seen what happens when someone tries to peel him off—full-body tantrum, red face, snot, screaming loud enough to rattle the paper doors. Absolute humiliation for whoever thought they had authority.
So they let him trail after Toji instead.
Eventually, Naoya manages to climb him like a stubborn little animal, wrapping himself around Toji’s thigh.
“Toji,” he repeats, softer this time. Like it means something.
Toji glances down.
The kid’s hair is a mess. His face still round with leftover baby fat. There’s a smear of something—jam? dirt?—at the corner of his mouth.
He looks up at Toji like he’s looking at a god.
It makes something ugly twist in Toji’s stomach.
He reaches down, grips Naoya under the arms, and lifts him one-handed.
“What’s your problem?”
Naoya blinks, confused by the question.
“You,” he says, like that explains everything. Like it’s obvious.
Toji stares at him.
Naoya grabs the collar of his shirt and presses his face into Toji’s shoulder, completely unbothered by the lack of warmth in his tone.
Toji shifts him higher on his hip without thinking about it.
“If you’re going to stay,” he mutters, “you have to be quiet. Okay? None of that crying, or I’ll drop you off with Jinichi and tell him to eat you.”
Naoya hums, content, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.
Maybe kids aren’t drawn to what they shouldn’t have.
Maybe they just don’t know any better.
Toji promises that he’ll never have one of his own.
⸻
Toji’s cried a lot of times in his life. To say he wouldn’t would be a lie. Not many people have seen him do it, sure. Doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.
He’s seven and crying, and his mom just kind of stares at him.
There’s a cut on his lip, blood spilling from it. He uses his hands to stop the bleeding, but it spills through the gaps of his fingers.
She wasn’t outwardly affectionate, but he’d never consider her to be neglectful in the same way his father and most of the other people on the estate were.
He doesn’t think she likes him, but he thinks that because he is a product of herself, she’s a bit more inclined to care about him. Not maternal instinct—just instinct.
He was a burden, but he was hers.
She extends her hands and pulls him into her lap. Toji stiffens immediately, like his body forgot how to be held.
There’s no one around to see her do it.
Which is kind of convenient, he thinks.
“There’s blood on your face,” she says.
“I know,” he mumbles.
“Does it hurt?”
She must be stupid.
He nods, his small face looking up at her.
She lifts his chin with her fingers.
“Ow,” he says, scrunching his face.
She pulls out a cloth and starts dabbing at his lip. It stings, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, trying not to cry more. He already is, a little, but he doesn’t want it to get worse.
Her thumb brushes his cheek—slower this time. Still awkward, but not as bad as before.
“You’re my baby boy, Toji,” she says quietly. “But that’s not going to stay the same forever.”
He opens his eyes and looks at her.
“I can stay little,” he says.
It comes out quick, like if he says it fast enough, it might be true.
She frowns a little, like she doesn’t like that answer.
She lifts him off her lap, sets him back on his feet, and presses the cloth into his hand, guiding it back to his lip.
“No,” she says. “You can’t.”
He holds the cloth there, staring at her.
For a second, it feels like she might say something else.
She doesn’t.
“Go on,” she says instead.
So he does.
He turns and walks away, still holding the cloth to his mouth.
He doesn’t look back.
But his lip still hurts.