Chapter Text
Chihiro is eight years old when it’s announced on the news — that for the anniversary of the end of the Seitei War, there’ll be a new memorial installed in Tokyo of Soga Akemura, Sword Saint and Hero.
He doesn’t think much of it, just listens idly to the news anchor talk about logistics and deadlines while he doodles in the margins of his math notebook. He doesn’t pay attention, not until he hears a crash from the kitchen. He turns to look over the back of the couch to see his father lunge for the faucet, cursing under his breath. The pot he’d been filling overflowed and tipped over, sending a flood of water across the counter and floor.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s all good,” his father says, but his voice sounds a little… strained. Like he’s trying a little too hard. “You know me — I just got distracted.”
Chihiro frowns. His father is so clumsy. “You need to pay attention in the kitchen, Dad. There’s lots of stuff that can hurt you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know — ”
Chihiro turns back to his math work, and the story on the news has already changed.
People on television like to say things — platitudes, really — about good days and bad days. Chihiro’s father doesn’t have either one. He has good weeks and bad weeks; good months and bad months. Sometimes, they can get in almost half a year without something going wrong, but it never lasts.
Chihiro is eight now, and he’s grown up with the strange moods his father has sometimes, both the upswings and the downswings, the bouts of frantic productivity and the inevitable crash. He knows them intimately, knows their shape and sound. There’s nothing worse, Chihiro thinks, than watching someone you love fall apart and being powerless to stop it.
On the first day of fall, his father shuffles into the kitchen. He’s on a downswing, the kind where he barely leaves his bed for days even though he’s not sleeping. He’s still in his bathrobe and pajamas from four days ago, and the scruff of his beard is starting to creep up his cheeks.
Chihiro is on his feet in seconds, abandoning the television remote. “Dad! You’re up!”
His father blinks at him with glassy eyes, his pupils blown out wide, and there’s nothing. Just two black holes leading nowhere. “G’morning, Kiddo,” he mumbles, then turns away to shuffle toward the coffee maker.
“Dad, you should eat something,” Chihiro says.
“Oh…” He turns away again and starts filling the coffee pot with water. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I had a big dinner last night.”
He did not have a big dinner last night, but Chihiro doesn’t say as much, just watches him sluggishly struggle with the coffee maker’s settings.
It all gets downplayed, of course. He’s just stressed out, Shiba tells him, he’s not himself right now. When Chihiro’s in the room, his father and Shiba never fight, never argue, never raise their voices at each other, but as soon as they think he’s too far away to hear, things are tense and strained. Chihiro eavesdrops from around the corner, his back pressed against the wall, listening to the grownups talk about grownup things.
“You’re really starting to scare me, Rokuhira,” Shiba says. “You need to get some help.”
His father scoffs. “Stop being so dramatic.”
Shiba drops his voice. “Me and Azami can figure something out. Find a doctor that’s discreet.”
“Look, can we talk about this later?” His father sounds annoyed. “I’m just tired. I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with something.”
“Rokuhira. I’m serious.” There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s not sure he wants to say what he’s thinking. “Chihiro’s been asking questions. He knows you’re not okay.”
His father says nothing.
“You’re his whole world,” he says. “Literally.”
“I know that,” his father says softly.
“If something happened — ”
“I know. But I’m not going back on the meds, Shiba. That shit only made things worse — you remember.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but there’s new stuff you can try, and Azami says — ”
“I’m not going back on the meds,” his father says again. “You’re wasting your breath.”
On the last day of September, Chihiro finds the letter in the garbage.
It’s not like he’s snooping on purpose — he accidentally drops a plate in the trashbin and has to dig it out, and that’s when he sees it. It’s an invitation, printed on thick, fancy cardstock, to a celebration for the anniversary of the end of the Seitei War. Guest of Honor is handwritten in thick black calligraphy at the top, and it’s ripped in half and sitting in the trash.
Chihiro stares at it for a couple minutes, then goes to look for his father. He’s not in his room, which is strange. He glances out the window, and the forge is dark and cold. Finally, he sees a thin strip of light under the bathroom door, and hears the squeaky hinge in the medicine cabinet.
The door’s cracked open, and when Chihiro catches a glimpse of what’s happening inside, he stops short. There’s an empty bottle of painkillers tipped on its side, and his father lines up the pills one by one on the vanity like they’re rows of teeth.
Chihiro watches him for a few moments, trying to make sense of the bizarre behavior. “Dad,” he says, “what are you doing?”
His father doesn’t just flinch — he jumps, cursing under breath. He tries to scoop the pills back into the bottle, but a few of them fall to the floor.
His father opens the door all the way, wild-eyed and frazzled. “How long have you been there?”
“I — Just a second,” Chihiro tells him. He feels like he’s in trouble and has no idea why.
His father searches his face for any hint of a lie, and when he finds none, he relaxes a little. “Okay,” he says. Then, mostly to himself: “Okay…”
Chihiro watches his father roll out his neck, then stoop to the floor, picking up the pills and putting them back in the bottle. Chihiro wrinkles his nose. “You shouldn’t do that.”
His father looks up at him, not following the logic. Is there a glint of fear in his eyes, or is it just Chihiro’s imagination? “Huh?”
“You should throw those away. They were on the bathroom floor. It’s gross.”
Some of the tension bleeds out of his father’s shoulders. “Y — yeah… You’re right…” It’s all very weird, but Chihiro is used to not understanding his father when he has his moods. “Did you need something, Kiddo?”
Chihiro chews on his lip, thinking about the destroyed invitation in his hand. As subtly as possible, he shifts so his father can’t see it. “It’s nothing. I just…” The paper crinkles in his hand. Finally, he says, “I have something I want to show you.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he says, tossing the bottle in the trash. While he’s turned away, Chihiro stuffs the invitation in his back pocket.
Chihiro leads his father to the kitchen, where there’s six pieces of toast on a plate. While they don’t have any butter or jam and the crust is a little well done at the edges, the middle’s definitely edible — but all of a sudden, Chihiro’s gut feels slimy with nerves, like there’s an eel slithering over his intestines. “Um,” he says, uncharacteristically shy, “I made toast.”
His father stares at it like he’s never seen bread before. “You made this?”
“It’s for you. I, um…” He scratches at the scuffed corner of the table. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Some strange, complicated emotion passes over his father’s face that Chihiro can’t put a name to. After a moment, he sits at the table, then pulls the plate closer. Picks up a slice, bites, chews. Swallows.
“…It’s good,” his father says. He’s blinking rapidly, and tilts his head a little to the side. “Thanks for cooking, Kid.”
“It’s plain toast,” Chihiro says. “It’s not like it’s hard.”
“…C’mere,” he says, and pulls him into a headlock.
“H — Hey!” Chihiro flails, trying and failing to twist out of the hold. “Lemme go!”
“Hmm… No, I don't think so.” He ruffles his hair. “What, you’re too good to roughhouse with your old man?”
“Ugh!” Finally, Chihiro manages to wedge his arm under his father’s elbow, breaking the headlock. He tries to smooth his hair back down into something manageable. “What was that for?!”
His father gives him a… look, like he knows something Chihiro doesn’t and thinks it’s funny. Chihiro flushes.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, his expression smoothing out into something nostalgic, almost regretful. “You’ve really grown up, haven’t you?”
“Not really.”
“No, you definitely have.” His father wraps an arm around his shoulders again, but this time, it’s just heavy and warm.
Chihiro leans into it, propping his chin up on his father’s shoulder. There’s a tiny spark back in his father’s eyes, and it makes the gnarled knot of tension loosen in his chest. “If you say so.”