Work Text:
Chuuya stood in the street, a wooden clinic in front of him, contemplative.
Everything he thought he ever wanted was right within his reach.
The woman, his mother, her orange hair was just like his. It was long and straight, passing by her thighs. She had brown eyes, and her entire demeanor from afar reminded him of Kouyou.
The man, his father, had curled reddish-brown hair, slightly sharp features, glasses, blue eyes, and freckles all over his face. He looked tired, with his shoulder slumped forward, yet there was a certain command to his presence.
It felt like an eternity, Chuuya gazing off towards them, longing in his eyes, hesitant to walk to them.
Chuuya looked at his right wrist again, tenderly rubbing his scar.
Mori contacted him via his phone, snapping the ginger out of his thoughts, “Are you sure you don’t want to meet them?”
“It’s okay. The Port Mafia is my family now,” Chuuya responded, monotone and devoid of any emotion. He hopped onto Albatross- his… his own bike. Chuuya’s hand hovered over the handle, slightly shaking. Biting his lip, he forcefully exhaled, and drove away.
Behind him, he believed, wasn’t his family, wasn’t another chance at living in the light, like Murase had suggested. All that was far behind him now, ever since Shirase found him that day.
Even if he was, is, human, the real, human Chuuya, he was something far more than that. Riding away, Chuuya never felt more free, and stared into the heavens, the ghost of a smile gracing his face.
“Boss… thank you.”
…
The couple glanced upwards, towards the road, startled after the loud sound of an engine getting farther and farther away.
A few moments passed by, before the man spoke. “Ah, it’s almost time for lunch now, isn’t it dear?”
The woman glanced at her watch, “Oh, you’re right!” She stood up from the wooden bench, glancing back to the small clinic. “Darling, we're ready to go!”
“Fine, coming,” a young voice said within the building.
“Make sure to lock the door this time,” the man said.
“Yeah I know. Geez, that was one time when I was twelve,” the young person said, locking the door with a key from their pocket.
“I’m making your favorite y’know. No need for such an attitude. Let’s go home, Chuuya,” the woman said, reaching for her son’s right hand; a beautiful smile painted on her face.
The boy, Chuuya, looked at his mother and father, “Alright, I’m coming.” He reached his hand to his mother’s, smiling ever so faintly.
Interestingly enough, despite bearing the same name, face, mismatching eyes, freckles and hair, there were a few differences between the two. Firstly, this Chuuya appeared a few years younger, his hair was parted a different way, among other small things. The most interesting detail however, was the lack of a scar on this Chuuya’s wrist.