Chapter Text
The first memory of Ryūgūji Takemichi was not a hug, nor a lullaby, nor the warmth of a blanket. It was the cold. The cold of a small apartment in the suburbs of Tokyo, where the walls seemed to absorb the moisture from the rain and the smoke from the cigarets of two young people who didn't know what to do with the life they had just brought into the world.
He was born on a stormy nite, but his arrival did not bring calm, but resentment. His parents, barely out of their teens, looked at him not as a miracle, but as the mistake that had stolen their freedom.
When is he going to shut up? —was the phrase Takemichi heard the most in his first months of life.
His father, a man with unkempt blonde hair and tired eyes, used to bang the table in frustration every time the baby cried from hunger. His mother, a woman of prematurely faded beauty and a jet-black mane, simply covered her ears or left the room, letting little Takemichi exhaust himself until he fell into an absolute silence.
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At three years old, Takemichi was no longer a normal child. While other children his age played and demanded attention, he had learned the most valuable lesson for surviving in that house: invisibility.
He had developed an astonishing ability to observe. He would sit in a corner of the living room, with his deep blue eyes —inherited from a father who barely looked at him— analyzing his parents' body language. He learned to identify the sound of keys that preceded a nite of shouting, and the smell of alcohol that announced he should hide under his small bed to avoid becoming the target of his father's frustration.
Her eyes, bright as the sky but burdened with an improper maturity, watched as her mother looked at herself in the mirror with hatred, silently blaming him for her dark circles and stagnant life.
You are just like him —she would sometimes say, tugging at his wavy black hair—. A burden.
Takemichi didn't respond. He wasn't crying. He was simply processing. His child brain was starting to wire itself in a different way: where others sought affection, he sought patterns of security.
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By the time he turned four, Takemichi already knew how to prepare something basic to eat if he found leftovers in the fridge. His parents used to leave him alone for hours, sometimes days, trusting that he would "manage."
It was during this period that sadness tried to consume him. There were moments, especially on gray autumn afternoons, when he would sit by the window and watch other children in the park across the street. He saw intertwined hands, laughter, and shared snacks. He touched his arm, where the mark of a too-strong grip from his father the nite before still lingered, and felt an emptiness that threatened to shatter his calm.
Why is there no one for me?, he wondered.
But then, something changed. A physical change in her mother, an increase in the tension in her father's shouts. A new life was on the way, the result of another carelessness, another nite of irresponsibility.
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Takemichi was five years old when they brought home a small bundle wrapped in a dirty blanket.
His parents left him on the sofa like someone leaves a shopping bag. His father ran his hand thru his blonde hair, huffing, while his mother cried out of pure rage in the kitchen.
"We can't handle another one, I told you!" she shouted. "We can barely take care of ourselves! We have to take him to an orphanage or leave him somewhere where they can take care of him!"
Takemichi, who was in his usual corner, stood up slowly. His bare feet made no noise on the wooden floor. He approached the sofa and looked at the baby. He was small, very small, with dark eyes that opened with curiosity upon sensing the presence of his older brother. The baby wasn't crying; he seemed to observe Takemichi with the same intensity with which he observed the world.
"We can leave him at the brothel on the corner, those women always want babies," suggested the father from the table, with a coldness that sent chills down the spine. "Or in a public orphanage. Forget about us."
Takemichi's heart, which until that moment had seemed like a cold stone designed to withstand, turned over. He couldn't allow it. If they took that baby away, The baby would be alone. And Takemichi knew what it was like to be alone. He knew what it was like to feel the cold of an empty room.
"No." said Takemichi. His voice was small, but firm.
His parents stopped and looked at him, surprised that the "silent" child had spoken.
"What did you say, brat?" his father stood up, walking toward him with heavy steps.
"Don't give him away," Takemichi repeated, stepping in front of the sofa, extending his short arms to protect the baby. "I... I'll take care of it. I will take care of it. It won't be a bother."
His father let out a dry and bitter laugh before delivering a blow that sent Takemichi to the ground. The child's lip began to bleed, but he immediately got up, his blue eyes ignited by a determination that even frightened his father.
"I promise he won't bother you!" he pled thru clenched teeth, ignoring the pain. "I will clean, I will feed him, I will do everything. Please!"
Her parents looked at each other. In their selfishness, they saw an opportunity: a free babysitter and the possibility of continuing with their lives without the hassle of getting rid of the baby for now.
"Fine," her mother grumbled from the kitchen. "But if I hear him cry just once, both of you will be out on the street."
Takemichi nodded vigorously. He turned toward the baby, who was now making a small babbling sound, and for the first time in five years, a small and genuine smile appeared on the dark-haired kid's face.
"Hello, tiny," he whispered, stroking the baby's cheek. "I am Takemichi. I am your older brother. I won't let anyone hurt you."
That was the day Ryūgūji Takemichi stopped being a child who survived and became a guardian who lived with a purpose.
The first nite was a trial by fire. His parents, after the brief and uncomfortable truce, had locked themselves in their room with a bottle of cheap shochu, leaving the baby on the sofa, wrapped in that blanket that smelled of dampness and neglect.
Takemichi, at his tender five years, didn't know much about babies, but he knew about needs. He knew what it was like to have an empty stomach and cold skin. He approached the sofa, moving with the caution of someone who fears waking a monster. The small lump moved slightly, emitting a muffled whimper.
"Don't cry," Takemichi whispered, with a voice trying to imitate the calm he had never received. "If you cry, they will come."
With an effort that made his small arms tremble, Takemichi lifted the baby. It weighed more than he expected, but he clung to it as if it were the most valuable treasure in the world. He took him to his corner, a small space behind the old television where he kept his few broken toys and a thin blanket.
He sat on the floor, cradling the baby in his lap. It was then that she realized something: her parents hadn't even bothered to give her a name. They called him "that," "the mistake," or "the brat."
"You need a name," said Takemichi, observing the baby's dark eyes that shone in the dim light. The little one had a lock of blond hair, so light it almost looked white under the moonlight coming thru the window—. "Dad is blonde and weak. Mom is dark-haired and sad. You will be different."
Takemichi remembered a word he had heard on an old radio show that his father sometimes listened to. A word that meant health, strength, and a solid foundation.
—Ken —he pronounced carefully—. You will be called Ken. Ryūgūji Ken. So that you are strong, so that you are someone no one can trample on.
The baby closed its tiny fists and grabbed one of Takemichi's fingers. At that moment, the pact was sealed. Takemichi was no longer just a five-year-old boy; he was the entire world for Ken.
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The following months were a choreography of survival. Takemichi learned to prepare baby bottles with warm water that he heated secretly in the kitchen when his parents were asleep. He learned to change diapers with pieces of old sheets that he washed by hand in the bathroom sink, scrubbing until his knuckles turned red from the cold.
His parents barely contributed the minimum. Sometimes, her mother would leave a bit of milk on the countertop before leaving; other times, her father would toss a few yen onto the table with disdain.
—It's for both of us. Don't spend too much —he grumbled.
Takemichi stretched every coin. He bought the cheapest for himself, sometimes spending days on just plain rice, to make sure Ken had what he needed. As Ken grew and began to crawl, Takemichi became his protective shadow. If Ken approached a sharp corner, Takemichi was there. If Ken made a noise that could disturb his father's hangover, Takemichi would wrap him in his arms and whisper stories in his ear to keep him quiet.
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There was an afternoon, when Takemichi was six years old and Ken had just turned one, when the tension in the house exploded. His father had lost money gambling and came looking for something to break.
Ken, who was learning to babble, dropped a plastic cup. The sound wasn't loud, but it was enough for the man.
"I told you to keep that animal quiet!" roared the father, lunging at little Ken.
Takemichi didn't think about it. His body moved purely on instinct. He lunged at his younger brother, completely covering him with his own body. The first blow of his father's belt landed squarely on Takemichi's back, a lash of fire that stole his breath away.
Takemichi gritted his teeth. His blue eyes, deep and icy, fixed on the ground. He didn't scream. He knew that if he screamed, Ken would get scared and cry, and then the violence wouldn't stop.
"I'm sorry, Dad," said Takemichi with an astonishingly steady voice, despite the tremor in his shoulders. "It won't happen again. I'll clean it."
He received two more blows before his father got tired and left the house, slamming the door. When silence returned, Takemichi felt Ken's small hands touching his face. The baby looked at him with confusion, not understanding why his older brother was so stiff.
Takemichi took a deep breath, forced a smile, and stroked Ken's blonde hair.
—It's nothing, Ken-chan. We were just playing —he lied. At that moment, Takemichi understood that his pain was an acceptable price if it meant Ken remained unharmed.
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As Takemichi entered elementary school, his personality was fully forged. He was a boy of unusual beauty; his black hair was like silk and his blue eyes attracted the gaze of the teachers. But what surprised the most was his intellect.
Takemichi sat in the front row, absorbing every word. He didn't do it out of personal ambition, but out of calculation. He knew that if he was the best, the teachers wouldn't ask uncomfortable questions about his bruises. He knew that if he got the best grades, someday he could get a job that would take him and Ken out of that hell.
In the afternoons, while other children played soccer, Takemichi walked to the kindergarten to pick up Ken. Little Ken, barely two years old, would run toward him with open arms as soon as he saw him appear.
"Michi!" Ken shouted with joy.
Takemichi would lift him up and, although his own school supplies were scarce and his notebooks were filled with tightly written notes to save paper, he made sure that Ken always had a colored pencil or something to distract himself with.
On the way back home, Takemichi was teaching Ken to read the store signs.
Look, Ken, it says "hope" there. Someday, we will go to a place where that word is true —he would say to him.
Ken nodded, fully trusting the blue-eyed boy who always smelled of cheap soap and unwavering determination. To the world, they were two children neglected by their parents; to the two of them, they were an army of just two soldiers, where Takemichi was the general who never retreated.