Chapter Text
Masahiro's mother was rarely ever home.
She seemed to be without someone like them, strangely enough, it seemed she had no one to hover around her in the way Kousuke did with Masahiro. Nobody to look after her except herself and the baby always searching for her from the confines of his cradle. That was, indisputably, the will of Fate- a Good thing.
And yet it seemed sad.
There was beauty to her, to everything she did, from the way her eyes would almost water when they fell upon her child to the smiles she would hide behind her colorful nails. Kousuke found that, in moments like that, it was hard to look away from her- they never could when she would tuck her hair back to bow and press her lips to that sleeping face, nor when she caressed it as if in fear that it might break, nor when, behind a closed door, she would sob into the sleeve of her dress, and cry the night away.
They were few, fleeting moments, between a whispered: "I'm home, Maa," and the consequent kiss to the soles of his feet, ever accompanied by that lament: "I'll be back soon, I'll work hard today, too," and then the soft click of the door, and the final: "I'll be back soon." They were few, but enough for Kousuke to learn, quickly enough, that "beauty" meant that, and nothing less, that it was in their inability to tear their gaze off and in the cold shiver that it brought to their chest.
To them, Megumi was beautiful.
Masahiro was, too, maybe because it was genetic, maybe by virtue of the fact that their eyes could never stray too far from that all too feeble light he seemed to give off. They never could, because, as much as it attracted their eyes, it seemed to pull calamity in, too.
A stroller beginning to roll along the sidewalk, an attempt at an escape from a now undersized cradle, a beg for warmth.
All things that Fate wrote off as incidental happenings that would not affect its course. All things that Kousuke, after hearing that pained, innocent cry of his for the first time, had taken upon themself to prevent.
None of it mattered in the face of the way things were fated to be, because the outcome remained unchanged, of course, but the sting in their chest had suggested it, and they'd chosen to follow that hint: it had suggested that, if it was in such a capacity, for something so small, then they could intervene freely, and make the path to the end a somewhat more pleasant one, for Masahiro and Megumi as much as for themself.
Misfortune was bound to come. And they were meant to help where they could, because nobody else would.
Masahiro didn't have a father.
His mother would sometimes cry about that, specifically, but she never seemed to hear Kousuke's voice when they spoke to tell her that one wasn't necessary, not for her and not for the child, because they themself were more than enough to fill that part. She only ever kept crying.
In all honesty, Kousuke had come to find that rude. But they didn't need her permission, nor her gratitude- all they needed was to keep doing what they had to and wanted to and there was nobody and nothing, outside of the Dogma and then himself, that would have ever been able to prevent that.
There were things that bothered them, admittedly. There was a frustration with Megumi's complete ignorance of their presence, yes, already for reasons that were beyond their comprehension, but there was the matter of Masahiro himself, too.
Since birth, the kid had always seemed to follow their voice: he'd sleep when they'd suggest it, he'd attempt to respond, even though he didn't possess the ability to do so, yet, he'd cry and cry until Kousuke would come to sit at his side and beg for him to stop.
But, when his eyes opened, there was no recognition in them.
The first utterance of the word "blind" had come as a relief, then. Because it meant that it wasn't Kousuke that the child couldn't see- he simply just couldn't, as an absolute: no light could get through to his eyes. It had seemed like the greatest of news, because it meant that Masahiro wasn't ignoring them when they moved across the room or tried to catch his attention with a wave of their hand. It meant that they had no reason to worry whatsoever.
Except that, in the end, it turned out that it hadn't been good news at all. All it really meant was that the child required extra care and supervision, in the eyes of his mother- something that Kousuke would have obviously been fully able to provide all on their own if only she would have stopped to listen to what they had to say. But she didn't. Maybe she couldn't.
And so all blindness ended up meaning, to Kousuke, was that Masahiro wasn't allowed to leave the house on his own, not even to play outside, not while he was still, by all means, nothing more than a child.
Whenever that rule would be reiterated, the boy would silently nod at his apologetic mother- and Kousuke would feel themself swell with a burning sting they'd have soon learnt to call helplessness. That, and a quiet bubbling irritation they weren't entirely sure was even their own.
But the kid would simply wait to hear the lock of the door with his eyes wide open towards the tiles that lined the floor. And Kousuke would quietly wonder just why it was that, among all the things he could do, the simple opening of a door proved to be impossible.
By the time the boy had learnt to walk and to get around the house without Megumi's help, that was how things had come to be- the situation had become abundantly clear to their eyes.
Masahiro's mother was never home. Masahiro didn't have a father.
Masahiro was blind.
The door was locked.
Kousuke couldn't open it despite their best efforts.
And so they decided that, since nobody else could or would, they were more than gladly going to be by the boy's side through his snores and cries, and the boredom of his confinement.
Holed up inside the cramped and mostly empty apartment, always alone together, there was very little for the two of them to do.
Conversing had, at first, seemed like the most obvious solution to that issue, but Masahiro simply wasn't the talkative type, he'd only ever really mutter to himself on occasion, and so Kousuke had given up on pressing the matter entirely after the first few tries.
There wasn't much they themself found worth discussing, anyways. In a sense, they had only really wanted to hear what his voice sounded like when he wasn't whispering, mumbling or outright crying.
In a sense, they'd only wanted the company of the boy's talking voice.
But it wasn't their place to feel lonely, nor was it to ask anything of Masahiro.
For the most part, it was more than fine to simply be there, in the kid's immediate proximity, and entertain themself with the simple things he'd try to do: the constant exploration of the same few rooms, the pacing, the occasional cleaning, the rearranging of things, the first few attempts at putting a meal together for himself. There was something fascinating about even the smallest of the boy's actions, something that made the act of simply lying in wait feel like a privilege of sorts- and just ensuring that none of this would cause harm to their light was enough for Kousuke, most of the time. That and holding their hand out against the teddy bear that Megumi had bought for Masahiro to play with as he hugged it to sleep, to pretend it was them in his arms and to let him know that they were still there, and always would be to watch over him as he woke up.
It was the second gift that she made to him that really brought change to their situation and daily routine, however: a simple digital alarm clock, one meant for the boy to be able to tell the time with a simple press of a button, one that an overjoyed and evidently proud Megumi had confidently stated would bring an end to Masahiro's loneliness. The reason for that, as it happened, was the radio function integrated within the device.
The sound that ended up filling the house when the silence finally ended was thus not that of the kid's voice, but that of strangers' prattling on about everything and anything, about nothing at all- that of Masahiro listening attentively and quietly as Kousuke watched him from just across, reading his expressions for what they could and finally coming to understand the first few things about the human Fate had assigned to them beyond the few certainties that, important as they were, had nothing to say about him and who he was or would be.
The radio's programs ranged wildly- from simple chatter about the most uninteresting of events or gossip and informative announcements about the weather and traffic to music shows and documentaries and, finally, radio dramas. And even there within that last category the variety was remarkable enough to seem absurd- romance, historical retellings, crime and detective stories, comedies, tragedies, heroic tales.
Among them all, it took no time whatsoever for Kousuke to take notice: Masahiro's heart rate would simply take off at the mere sound of the word "hero"- it was the last of the bunch that had him truly mesmerized.
They weren't entirely uninterested themself.
There was something admittedly alluring to them in those stories about regular individuals who turned out to be exceptional under their guise of normalcy. They liked their unwavering dedication to their cause, they liked the way they fought to the end even in the direst of situations, they liked their spirit and self-sacrificing kindness and, more than anything, they liked the fact that they weren't afraid of having to stand all alone or get hurt in their efforts to protect what they cared for and believed in- in fact, that was their strength and pride. Heroes that were all-powerful when it mattered most, heroes that could rise up to any situation, because there was no calamity they couldn't stop if they put their mind to it.
Kousuke thought they felt something of a sense of comradery towards them- they were alike, in methods and goals. Like those masked humans struggling to save cities from monsters and villains, they were also trying and, if they could say so themself, succeeding in keeping the peace before the fated end. In a sense, they were also a hero of sorts, if only not the type that could come through to save the day at the very end.
And that was why they liked them so much. Probably. They weren't sure.
The one thing they could truly be certain of was that Masahiro would come to life when he heard the notes of the familiar opening themes, that he'd listen so intently he'd sometimes forget to breathe, that the climactic moments would have him on his feet and hopping across the room, that the witty one liners and comebacks would put the widest of smiles on his normally neutral face, that he'd pump his fist and cheer in silence for every punch and hit the good guy would land- that he'd shed tears for the darkest of hours as much as the happy endings that would come without fail.
Kousuke wasn't sure just what it was that could sadden him about those conclusions, but it was around that time that Masahiro learnt, or taught himself, to cry in the same hushed way in which he normally muttered his words- perhaps because he wanted to still be able to hear and discern the radio's words over his own voice, perhaps because he didn't like to cry in front of the other, since they themself never did.
But every sob that he tried and managed to hold back seemed to sneak up on Kousuke to drag them down instead, like a ball and chain stuck to their throat. And any and all attempts at reassurance of the fact that it was fine, that they'd seen him cry countless times before, that they didn't mind a single bit, would end in the same way: the boy would shiver, and then hiccup a little louder, and then the weight on them would only grow in size.
It was a steep price to pay, always, that suffocating and freezing feeling. But it would fade, after a bit.
First there would be the excitement of the story, then the satisfaction of a pleasant albeit simplistic conclusion would follow- and then would come the weight of those inconsolable tears. A weight that would finally always melt into the warm embrace that Masahiro would wrap around that teddy bear of his- and it was for that, for that enveloping heat, for that gentle feeling, that all of it was worth it.
In its presence and in the memory of it there was no place for the loneliness of every other silence, or heaviness that wouldn't easily take to floating, or thought spared for what was to come.
Even Fate could momentarily disappear to make way for a dream, that was what they'd learnt from all of Masahiro's dearest stories. Even while listening, they could appreciate the wild imagination behind the idea that It could in any way be altered, as preposterous as it was, because it seemed only fair that what imperatively couldn't and never would be could at least be possible within the realms of the fleeting fantasies narrated by the voices on a radio. And, once the story was over, when there was nobody to tell a new one, they supposed there could be no harm in crafting their own, just for a short while, to build their own fantasy and live it through the sleep the boy would succumb to after exhausting all his tears.
It was nothing more than self-indulgence, nothing more than an undeserved reward, their one true moment of rest. Indeed, it was but a dream they had chosen to allow themself to have, day after day, episode after episode. A different life, a different end- a different house, a different place. Something that would never be, something they would certainly find they didn't truly want with a clear mind.
Whenever their thoughts would wander too far into the fantasy, the warmth would start to melt them, too. A pleasant feeling.
But then Masahiro would stir. And Kousuke's unraveling would turn itself back like the tape of a cassette.
It seemed it took more than just waking up to shake off a dream.
Tuesdays and Wednesdays easily came to be their favorite days- theirs and Masahiro's- because that was when, at exactly 4:30 pm, the best of all those dramas was set to air. They'd make sure to turn on the radio as soon as they left the bed, and then they'd dedicate the rest of the day to religiously waiting to hear the now all too familiar jingle as they casually listened to whatever it was that the other programs playing before the main event had to say, always sitting on the living room floor next to the dinner table, always with their legs crossed, always close enough to almost touch as they leaned into the device as if listening closer could help them to absorb more of the precious words trickling out of it.
"Descended from Sirius" was a simple story, at its core. It was that of an alien who'd fallen from a star and was given a home on planet Earth by the girl who'd first found him and rescued him- Koumi. It was the story of a human child whose only friend was an extraterrestrial and a warrior who attracted trouble wherever he went. It was a story about an unlikely family, in an unlikely place, with unlikely people- a story about the struggle to find and defend a place the characters could call home.
It was a story that, at times, sounded all too familiar- Kousuke wasn't unaware of that, and they could tell Masahiro wasn't either, because his heart would soar whenever the two protagonists would end an episode by sharing their usual celebratory curry after a hard-earned victory in the tight space of their apartment- an apartment that wasn't at all unlike theirs.
The story may have very well been about them- that was probably the main appeal. Imagining themselves in place of the characters was, even if Kousuke wasn't quite an amazing and endlessly cool warrior shining bright enough to turn the darkest of nights into the dawn of a new day, even if all Masahiro wasn't as headstrong or blessed as Koumi, and all he really ever had to eat was instant ramen and the occasional full meals Megumi managed to put together.
For the longest time, it felt like that had been the main question regarding the series between the two of them: just what was it that triumph tasted like to them, to Sirius and Koumi? What did it smell like? Was it really as good as their pleased hums suggested? Was it really true that one bite was enough to feel at peace and at home?
Then, one day, their doubts all found an answer when, on a fateful Friday, the miracle of vegetable curry happened. Or, well, Masahiro's did, since Kousuke couldn't really join him at the dinner table, nor did they have a need to. They were still beyond curious to see what the boy's reaction to tasting the meal of his dreams would be- more so even than they had been about "Descended from Sirius" picking up from its last cliffhanger.
That day's episode ended up being an outstanding one, possibly the best to have aired. Sirius had been away to fight his greatest battle yet: an intergalactic struggle against those who believed that stars belonged in the night sky and shouldn't ever stop shining there, least of all to protect the beings on a planet as comically irrelevant as the Earth. Koumi had lost all contact with him a few episodes before, and had been left with nothing but the fear of soon seeing him back where he belonged, in the constellation of the dog- she'd been making him curry every day as she'd said she would, to let the familiar smell guide him back to earth. And it had. Because Sirius had come back home to his beloved Koumi and her delicious curry at long last, just in time for the episode to end with them eating the one she'd freshly made, side by side.
It had been a messy mixture of anxiety, relief, joy and desperate sobs between Masahiro and themself, all the way until the time for dinner had finally come. The time for their own celebratory curry.
After heating his bowl up in the microwave and setting the table as he liked to do, with a mat and his favorite fork, the boy sat down in front of his meal and then, to Kousuke's surprise, instead of simply joining his hands in silence as he normally would, for what felt like the first time ever, he spoke out.
"Curry's meant to be had with the people you love."
They weren't his words. No, he was reciting a line that Koumi had spoken in the episode they'd finished listening to not too long before. It was entirely unexpected, but they figured it had to be an invitation for them to play along- they remembered the lines decently well, luckily for him.
"I'd never had it before you made it for me," they quoted.
Masahiro missed his cue to chuckle as the girl did in the drama.
Kousuke waited for just a moment.
"Masahiro," they called. "Hey, your next line is: 'I was afraid you wouldn't come back.'"
Again, there was no answer.
They should have realized sooner, maybe. But they'd been overjoyed to finally get to hear the boy's voice, out and loud for the first time, they'd had no thought to spare for the knot that had been sitting at the top of their stomach since the ending theme had played. They'd been too involved in the tale they'd been desperate to hear the end to, too expectant at the idea of Masahiro overwhelmed by the delicious taste of his first curry, and had had no space left for his despair in the pool of their own glee at the characters' reunion and the boy's first proper words to them.
It was obvious now.
Yet they still didn't want to give in to the reality of it.
"Masahiro," they called again. "I said my line, so-"
The boy let out a hiccup. And a second. And then he was sobbing. And then he was crying as he hadn't since he'd stopped having a cradle for a bed.
And Kousuke felt themself drop like the beer bottle Megumi had accidentally shattered a few days prior.
Masahiro's words hadn't been for them at all. They couldn't have been. Of course not.
It had been a while since they'd let out their voice and, having heard the boy's just then, there was no more room for doubt. Masahiro couldn't have been speaking to them, and he couldn't respond either. There was nothing to follow up on. After all, Kousuke couldn't hear themself speak, either.