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When Wakatoshi is down, he goes to Asa.
He lets himself into the house, wanders around aimlessly until he finds her. Sometimes she’s in the kitchen, apron wrapped around her waist as she hums a little tune. Sometimes she’s on the couch, leaning against the backrest and snacking on some nuts as she chuckles along to her favourite show. Sometimes she’s at her desk, eyebrows furrowed as she puzzles out whatever it is that she’s working on.
The sight of Asa always freezes him. Whether out of relief of being so close to her or a politeness as a guest, he’s not quite sure, but he stays at the doorway. There, he waits.
Wakatoshi can never tell how long it takes for Asa to notice him. He’s floaty and heavy, too consumed with emotions that he feels nothing at all. He just waits. Stares. Watches.
Regardless of what she’s doing, her reaction when she spots Wakatoshi is always the same: her eyes soften. It makes Wakatoshi tremble; no one has ever looked at him like that, with such pure adoration and care, not even his parents.
“Wakatoshi,” she calls. “Come here.”
Wakatoshi goes, of course he does. He pads over to her slowly, one foot in front of another, compelled like a magnet. Asa waits for him, arms outstretched, as he collapses into her arms.
Wakatoshi has never been particularly sensitive to scents, but as with everything, it’s different with Asa. He buries into her, engulfs himself in the scent of freshly picked lavender, of warm hugs and home-made miso soup.
Asa never asks what’s wrong; she holds him, strokes his head and pats his back, and lets him be. Wakatoshi’s eyes go from dry to wet, and rarely does he even know why he’s crying, but Asa lets him stay there, warm and comforted in her embrace until his tears run dry and he feels better again.
He doesn’t let go of Asa afterwards. He shifts to kneel at her feet, head against her lap and arms loosely wrapped around her calf. When she gets up, Wakatoshi does too, two big hands engulfing her one small one. If she’s cooking or doing chores, Wakatoshi drapes himself across her shoulders almost-sleepily, like a weightless backpack that she carries throughout the house.
She feeds Wakatoshi, bringing sliced fruit pieces to his mouth. Wakatoshi never feels like eating, but he opens his mouth anyway, chewing diligently before he swallows. Asa praises him for it. In her voice, it doesn’t sound infantilising or mocking; it just makes him feel safe.
Sometimes, he can hear Kourai coming home, bursting into the house with a loud “MOM” that makes him jerk. Asa runs her hand over his hair to soothe him, and Kourai’s heavy footsteps and loud voice quieten shortly after.
“Welcome home, Kourai,” Asa greets. Kourai leans over to give her a peck on the cheek. Wakatoshi relaxes from where he’s kneeling on the ground, nuzzling into Asa’s thigh. Asa chuckles affectionately.
“He’s okay, right?” Kourai whispers.
“He will be,” Asa says. She pats Wakatoshi’s head one more time before she gets back to work.
“Thanks for taking care of him, Mom.”
Wakatoshi tunes out the rest of the conversation. He doesn’t need to hear what they say to know they care; he can just relish in her presence, let the real world pass and be taken care of for the next few hours.