She wasn't sure what the quagmire of bureaucracy was like in Japan, but it was a
lot faster than home. The adoption was legalized within the week- she wasn't sure if that was a result of a frenetic local government or if the man had already been pushing for it to go through since before they met.
The thought was worrying, but living with one person sounded significantly less stressful than foster care, so she tactfully kept quiet.
Days continued to blend into each other. Without a concrete way to pass the time and Mitsuzuri already overworked, she mostly stayed in her temporary accommodations. Hours spent alone allowed her to delicately sift through her thoughts, categorizing them in shelves and rows so that they could be understood.
The loss of her family- her real one, her old one- was a factoid that utterly failed to stir up much more than a pang of something she couldn't identify. There was more than enough time for it to sink in. She vaguely wondered if there was just something
wrong with her. Something that made her just a bit less of a person. This wasn't normal, right?
It was something she didn't dare speak to Mitsuzuri about. Every time she opened her mouth, her throat would clench, she'd trail off into something else, or the words would never formulate to begin with. Part of it she surmised to be a senseless altruism- that other children were more important to attend to. The other was a crippling phobia of rejection that was wedged deep into her bones.
Even before everything went wrong, her idiosyncratic demeanor had been isolating. Things took her a little longer to process, ordinary actions needed to be methodized. She wasn't sure if her solitude had started off self-imposed or if she slowly adapted to it over the course of her teenage years.
For better or worse, Nurse Mitsuzuri was the closest thing she had to a friend here. It was difficult to tell if the woman saw her as anything more than just another patient or if she was effectively forming a parasocial relationship with her own caretaker. Every positive interaction and gesture was addictive. The approval of others- stranger or no- left her feeling both warm and empty. She wanted more.
It was December first when her fragile routines were disrupted. The adoption had gone through in full, with her date of birth being listed as the selfsame day. She'd be going to Kiritsugu's house the following morning.
Interactions with him were both easy to parse and annoyingly convoluted. Each time he looked a little bit more put together- clean shaven and showered, or wearing clothes not stained at the cuffs in what she hoped wasn't human ash. But even so, she could tell that there was something weird with him.
Every time he looked at her, it was like he couldn't believe she was there. Like if he looked away, or couldn't prove she was physically present, she'd vanish. His emotions were definitely positive, but they didn't feel the same as Mitsuzuri's.
She wasn't sure if he cared about her as much as he cared for the
idea of her. She represented something to him that he valued beyond reason or measure. Would he still feel the same in a month or two, when he had enough time to see her flaws and faults for what they really were? Or would he ignore that they existed at all, so long as his idea of her could persist?
Her mind sunk into a self-effacing spiral as if they'd never left one to begin with. She wanted Kiritsugu to be kind, but the potential prospect of his cruelty wasn't as frightening as indifference. If he dropped the other shoe early on, at least she wouldn't have to wait for it.
The next time she saw him, it was at an ungodly hour in the morning. She was woken up by Nurse Mitsuzuri to have her vitals taken for the final time and rapidly ushered into a cramped bathroom with a pile of clothes that didn't belong to her. A manicured hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing gently enough she could barely feel the pressure.
"The clothes are brand new. You don't have to worry about germs, T-
Shirou." The name was unfamiliar and felt like sandpaper. She'd made the decision to go by that name, but every time she heard it reminded her of what she left behind.
The persistent haze that clung to her thoughts refused to abate, but it was difficult not to think about what her parents- her birth parents- were doing at the moment. What happened to her
real body? Did she just not wake up one morning, having passed peacefully during the night? Did her family mourn her?
Or… was she never born to begin with? If she couldn't prove that she used to exist, were her memories real at all? Was she?
The train of thought was morbid and self-flagellatory, but lingering on it was oddly cathartic. Whatever grief she should've felt was muted. The unreality of the situation prevented the formation of tears.
Inhale. Exhale.
The knob twisted and the bathroom door shut behind her. It was cold.
Everything was undersized- the toilet came up to her knees at the most generous estimate, the sink up to the middle of her chest. It was perfect for the pediatric ward, and by extension, perfect for her in a wildly disheartening way.
She dropped the pile of clothes onto the rim of the sink. Boxers, jeans, a black t-shirt. It was starkly utilitarian, and she pondered the likelihood that Kiritsugu picked it out himself. The thought of the clearly depressed, nicotine-smelling man browsing through a children's clothing outlet and proceeding to pick out the most monotonous outfit available made her lips twitch.
She caught sight of her reflection out of the corner of her eye. Her amusement deflated as she turned to look at herself in full. It was her face, probably. Definitely. But that didn't make it feel real.
It was a lot harder to pretend nothing was wrong when she couldn't recognize herself. The mirror indisputably showed her the image of a child.
The curves of her face were uncanny. She poked at the skin under one of her eyes absently, and nearly didn't expect to feel her finger make contact. The body had reddish hair, overgrown and hanging over her eyes in shaggy clumps like a sheepdog.
Her hand trailed further upwards, pulling down the eyelid by its lashes until the skin wouldn't budge further. It hurt. It felt like it
shouldn't. Because it wasn't her, or it wasn't supposed to be.
The hospital gown was a sickly and horrendous purple. It hid a frame she didn't want to look at. She turned away, clenching her eyes shut and getting dressed as quickly as she could manage.
The outfit wasn't something she'd have turned her nose at back when things were normal. Wearing it now felt weird.
She pushed the door back open, dutifully not making eye contact with her assigned caregiver. Everything about the situation chafed, and no amount of explaining felt like it would do any good. If she didn't have the words to articulate what was going on inside her brain, how could she even begin to explain it to someone else?
If she found a way to voice her distress, would it really fix anything? It- she, the body- would still be
wrong. Speaking about it wouldn't make it go away.
A warm hand engulfed her shoulder. The concern in Mitsuzuri's voice was palpable. "Are you alright?" The nurse squeezed her clavicle gently enough that the change in pressure was difficult to notice.
Are you alright? It was a loaded question.
She could've been referring to the abject loss of Shirou's parents, the prospect of being adopted by a stranger, or some other assumed trauma sourced from the fire like so many others. Something in her words weighed heavy. It was frustrating that she couldn't pinpoint what.
Was she alright?
"It's okay," she answered. The words were lodged in molasses and spoken twice as slow. Unable to explain the root of her problems, she elected to share none of them at all. When there wasn't an immediate response, she glanced back upwards.
It looked like there were a lot of things the nurse wanted to say. What ended up coming out was "If you're sure." Not knowing what else to do, she nodded. Silently, she was led back through the winding halls she tried to sneak through a few nights ago. As soon as they reached the elevator, she gently pulled her hand out from Mitsuzuri's.
They began their descent with little fanfare. Her gaze trailed aimlessly around the metal container, quickly darting away as soon as she made eye contact with the nurse. This, of all things, prompted a response.
"You're allowed to not be okay."
She knew that. She just wasn't sure how to get better when she didn't know what was wrong.
More than anything, she wanted to go
home. Not to the household of a stranger.
Fuyuki wasn't home. Mitsuzuri wasn't, either. It was easy to latch on to the first person who made her feel secure when every moment felt unsafe.
She let the statement hang in the air without bothering to respond.
The automatic door to the lobby swung open. She could make out Kiritsugu amidst the veritable crowd of people waiting for news about their loved ones. Predictably, he was standing in a corner a ways away from everyone else, dressed to the nines in dark colors and looking as wildly out of place as she felt.
Credit where credit was due- he seemed to be very committed to his funeral vogue aesthetic. She wasn't sure she ever saw him wear anything else. At least this time, he was clean-shaven.
The nurse gestured to someone behind one of the counters. In return, he held up a stapled bundle of papers- discharge forms, maybe? "Wait here for a second," she said, reaching over the counter to remove a pair of scissors from a mug. They angled towards her wrist, and-
Snip.
The bracelet fell off, and all that remained of Yamada Taro was thrown into the trash.
…
Goodbye, Taro. It was nice to know you, I guess.
The only name she had left right now was Shirou. It itched like an ill-fitting shoe.
"Hey," a tap at the shoulder drew her attention upwards. In response, Mitsuzuri crouched that much lower, allowing them to meet at eye level. "It's time for you to go home." Instinctively, her eyes darted to the corner of the lobby where Kiritsugu had been standing for the last few minutes.
She wasn't sure where he'd take her, but it wouldn't be home. They barely knew each other. The nurse stood up, offering her hand. "Come on, Shirou. Let's go talk to your dad."
She didn't take it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The two of them carried a rapid-fire conversation in Japanese that she couldn't make heads or tails of. Her name- the one she still didn't know what to do with- came up several times. She pulled at the collar of her shirt, running its seams between her fingers in self-soothing circles.
Then Mitsuzuri left, and she was left alone with the stranger. Left alone with the person who adopted her. Abruptly, she realized this was probably the first time they'd been alone with each other since the disaster that brought them together.
He was still smiling, too. Subtler this time. Looking
up at him was a lot different than sitting across from him. This way, she noted, his elbows were just above eye-level.
She tugged her shirt a little harder.
She would've been perfectly content to stand in silence, but after only a few moments' silence, Kiritsugu spoke up. "Are you hungry?" His Japanese was slow and enunciated for her benefit. The question and gesture alike sent threads of anxiety coursing around her intestines.
No, that was wrong.
Guilt.
"No," she lied. She wanted to find out where she was staying so she could shut off the lights and lie down on the floor. He took a moment to consider the answer.
A beat later, he nodded, not saying a word.
She had the sudden urge to pull her thumb back behind her wrist. This whole exchange was wildly uncomfortable, and they'd barely even said anything.
Maybe Kiritsugu thought so, too. He cleared his throat and gestured to a set of automatic sliding doors at the forefront of the lobby. "There's a driver waiting for us."
She tossed and turned the words in her head, letting them painstakingly sift into a coherent sentence. He hired a taxi? A brisk nod broke off that train of thought. "Okay."
When she looked up, he was several paces away. It occurred to her that he probably expected her to follow him instead of zoning out. She scrambled over, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. Most of her time in the ward was spent sitting or lying down. Actively moving around made it a lot easier to remember that nothing was right about this- especially when she tried to move her small, stubby limbs just a bit farther than they'd go and fall horribly short.
Stupid legs.
Kiritsugu stopped without warning in front of the sliding doors, and she walked right into him. He turned around, and from the corner of her eye, she noticed that the doors weren't actually
open yet.
Her thumb twitched. She reached for the digit with her other hand-
-only for it to be intercepted. Kiritsugu's palm was damp and clammy, marked by callouses rough enough she could feel them without trying. He maneuvered her to his side with a gentle nudge. His face tightened for a moment, but it was difficult to see what emotion he was trying to make. "Please don't wander off in the parking lot."
This time, he spoke entirely in English, eliminating any chance of misunderstanding. She bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a frown. Did he think she was stupid?
…She sighed through her nose. No, he probably thought she was eight. Kids were supposed to hold hands when crossing the street, right? Wasn't the first night he visited the ward the time she wandered off, too?
The skin of her mouth throbbed. It took conscious effort to unclench her jaw. Maybe his concern was a little justified, but the skin contact was still
weird. The hospital was freezing. Why was he sweating so much?
She remained quiet as he walked her outside. The morning was early and cloudy and very, very bright. It was easy to stand still, breathing in thick, smoke-tinged air and letting the sunlight throb through her eyeballs back through her optic nerve.
The outside of the hospital was a sterile gray. The only spots of color came from mostly-barren garden plots placed in orderly intervals. Things didn't flower in the winter, but part of her wondered what the climbing branches would look like in bloom.
He tugged her wrist, signaling that the two of them were supposed to keep walking. He had the decency to move slow enough for her to keep up, even as she stumbled forwards. The two of them walked quietly across a yellow-lined sidewalk to an innocuous black sedan idling at the curb.
That doesn't look like a taxi.
Deciding to investigate, she peered closer. The car's windows were hard to see through, but she could make out someone already inside. Notably, both the stranger and the steering wheel were on the right side of the car- obvious in hindsight, but still jarring in the moment. Kiritsugu's other hand reached out to open one of the back doors, presumably for her.
It smelled very clean.
"Do you know-" the question was in Japanese, and she only made out about half of it. Fortunately, a blank stare was distinct enough a response for him to repeat it in English. He cleared his throat. "Do you need help buckling?"
"I can do it," she blurted, yanking her hand from his and crawling to the furthest seat. She tugged the strap down over her body until it clicked. It crossed almost directly over her neck.
She glanced over and immediately broke eye contact when she realized Kiritsugu was looking back. Fortunately, he seemed more amused than anything. She couldn't tell if the sound he made was a sigh or a chuckle, but he slid in next to her.
Click.
Both Kiritsugu and the driver- a well-groomed man seemingly in his late thirties- exchanged brief words, though the only one she could make out more than once was 'Raiga'. She hypothesized that this was a name of some sort, but she had no real motive to test it.
Thankfully, the two older men didn't seem any more interested in engaging in conversation than she was. The engine rumbled gently- louder than she'd expect from a vehicle of this size. They pulled out of the parking lot with a sharp turn that dug into her neck and sent something rolling to her feet.
Something
shiny. She leaned over-
Kiritsugu snatched it up out of her reach and placed it up by the stick shift. She sent him a befuddled look.
Was that a roll of duct tape?
What on earth would he need one of those for?
The drive continued wordlessly. Despite the current circumstances, it was easy to become enthralled by the passing sights of Fuyuki through the windows. They navigated through various alleys and distributor roads, some seemingly several times over. Slowly but surely, they drifted into a more rural district.
The noted lack of city clutter was her first observation. Her second was how everything from the plant life to the dotted shrines seemed well-cared for. Bushes of pinkish flowers dotted the sidewalks in orderly rows, and there wasn't any litter as far as she could see. The lingering tension from the recent disaster seemed distant, somehow. Less frantic.
"What're those?" she blurted before she had the chance to suppress the words. There wasn't any response for a handful of seconds. Surprisingly, the eventual answer came from the front.
"Camellias," he didn't look up from the wheel as he spoke, "Miyama's residential zones have a flower department that keeps seasonal plants healthy. Digs 'em up when they start to wilt and all that."
There were a lot of words there. Maybe Miyama was, like, a district or something…? "Oh."
She wasn't the best with time, but she estimated they'd been driving for over forty-five minutes before they came to a stop in front of a massive wall- and a set of gates that they'd presumably walk through. The instant the driver shifted the gear into park, she unbuckled herself and jumped down to the sidewalk in one motion. Long car drives were fun, but sitting in the back for that long with two complete strangers? Not her thing.
Rubbing the skin of her throat made her wince a bit. Kids were supposed to use booster seats- it was something she
knew but didn't know
intimately, and even though the trip was smooth, it didn't speak much for Kiritsugu's responsibility. If they'd gotten into an accident…
She nearly walked face-first into the driver's open door in her attempt to make it through the gate. Her first assumption was that it was a gated neighborhood. A gravel driveway cracked with each step she took, and though the greenery was barren it would presumably look a lot better in the warmer months to come.
There were already a few other cars- trucks, really- pulled up in front of a large central building. Assorted movers handling large boxes darted about the yard.
Did Kiritsugu just move in? She pulled at the collar of her shirt, ruminating on the observation further.
Wait, is this all one property? Why the hell would anyone need this much?
The bustle made it wildly unlikely she'd be able to find some peace and quiet. Maybe she could play up the lack of fluency to get out of interaction?
A quick glance around- Kiritsugu was in a conversation with yet another stranger, but she was well within his peripherals. He caught her stare and she immediately looked away.
On the one hand, she wanted nothing to do with these people. On the other, they'd leave faster if she helped out. She clicked her nails rhythmically.
Click.
…
Click.
Her posture deflated with a grumble as she trudged over.
Let's just get this over with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
They did not leave faster.
She was barely given anything to carry in, and even after the trucks were left empty, Kiritsugu stayed outside to talk for another twenty minutes.
If one more person tries to pat my head, I'm going to bite their hand. Currently, she sat perched atop a set of sliding cabinets in what she was told was the dining room.
Click.
Click.
Her thumbs and index fingers were red at this point. She'd long since lost track of her thoughts to the loose tumble of nerves in her stomach. Pins and needles in her legs had settled into numbness by the time Kiritsugu walked back in. He was carrying a plastic bag- takeout?- and placed it on a low wooden table in the middle of the room.
"Shirou, take off your shoes." It was the suddenness of the request combined with the language in which it was asked that delayed her response. In the meantime, the older man distributed a couple plastic containers across the table, adding some napkins and paper-wrapped chopsticks for good measure.
It was curiosity, not obstinance, that prompted her following question. "Why?"
"Your shoes are dirty," he responded. The wording was simple and enunciated. It was at this point she realized he wasn't wearing the polished loafers he had on before- they'd been replaced by a pair of linen slippers. He'd presumably hung up his coat as well.
She decided to acquiesce the point, pulling off her sneakers without bothering to untie the laces. They were dropped unceremoniously onto the cabinet. "Please put them by the front door."
She managed to hold eye contact for around three seconds this time before reluctantly sliding to her feet, taking the shoes with her. Her pilfered grip socks from the hospital compounded the unusual texture of the woven mat floor- she wasn't sure if she disliked the sensation, yet. After she made her way back, she plopped cross-legged across the table.
A frown. She wriggled in place to adjust her posture. An odd look was sent her way that she dutifully ignored. The fact that she was technically
not a girl right now was easier to overlook when each minute shift in how she sat wasn't such a glaring reminder. Both of them remained silent long after she settled into a slouch.
Not willing to initiate discussion, she took a closer look at the container closest to her. It was a prepackaged meal of some sort, sealed by a sticker alongside a plastic rim that depicted a blue and green logo. Probably a grocery store or something.
About half was filled with rice, topped with a weird wrinkly thing that brought to mind a pink cherry tomato. The other side boasted a neat array of various fried things- she was able to identify croquettes, carrots, and a generous portion of mushroom. Credit where it was due- it
looked a lot better than the type of stuff she'd find in stores back home.
"I receive." Kiritsugu snapped open a pair of chopsticks and peeled off the sticker on his container.
She'd seen people say that in the pediatric ward when they were getting ready to eat, but its significance remained elusive. Regardless, she'd rather eat in uncomfortable silence than ask questions of a stranger.
She repeated the phrase under her breath as she pulled the chopsticks out from their paper wrapping. "
Itadakimasu."
The utensils were as difficult to use as ever. She fumbled with the food often enough that Kiritsugu reached across the table to move her fingers around until she held them like a pencil.
A strange unreality settled over her as she began to eat- like it wasn't
her doing it, and she was watching someone else go through the motions from somewhere far away. It probably tasted good. The textures and smells were fine, but the normal enjoyment she'd get from eating something wasn't there. Like chewing on cardboard, maybe.
She methodically made her way through the box. Each item was consumed in order before she'd move onto the next. Vegetables, croquette, and finally…
The not-tomato thing on top of the rice. Presuming it to be another vegetable, she shakily raised it to her mouth and almost immediately spat it back out.
Sour wasn't a good enough descriptor. It was like biting into a lemon rolled in salt that was then left to ferment in the sun- horribly acidic and sweet in the worst possible way. The skin caught in her teeth. She plunged her index finger through her gums to scrape it out.
The offending object- she refused to label it a food item- plopped onto the clear plastic lid she'd previously placed to the side. Kiritsugu, of course, was wildly unhelpful.
"Have you never had umeboshi before?" the corners of his eyes crinkled, and she had the distinct impression that he was deriving amusement at her expense. They only creased further when she tried to glare in response.
Her lack of fluency in Japanese didn't impede her response.
"This food should die."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was only fair that she wiped down the table after she spat pickled plum all over it. The waste was thrown away into a transparent garbage bag- something else she wasn't familiar with- before being tucked into a plastic bin that slid in and out of one of the kitchen cabinets.
That just left the two of them standing awkwardly, one adamantly not looking at the other. Kiritsugu was the one to speak up first. "Shirou?"
Something in his tone of voice seemed serious. Her gut squirmed, and she wasn't sure the umeboshi had anything to do with it. She didn't
think she did anything wrong. Would she even notice if she did? "If you're going to live here, there's something you should know about me."
The fact that he spoke that entirely in English hammered in her anxiety. Did he even realize how ominous he sounded? He did, right? Was he going to confess to being a cannibal? Was he divorced?
"I'm actually a magus."
…
No, he was just really, really weird- and she would've said so out loud if there wasn't a tiny, hopeful voice asking her
what if? What if he was telling the truth? What if, in a world where her body was wrong and not all children were children, magic was real?
"Show me."
He insisted it wasn't a toy- something about walking with death- but he didn't say no, either. With a mumbled breath and a dim glow, he took an ordinary paper towel and made it as strong as a steel plate. Running it under water didn't tear it, the scissors she pried at it with creaked worryingly, and when he gave it for her to hold, its weight hadn't changed.
It wasn't a grand display by any stretch, but it broadened a horizon she wasn't aware she had- like transferring to a 3d graph and Z-coordinates after only viewing things from X and Y.
Kiritsugu seemed visibly unsettled at her intensity. No, magic wasn't a toy. It was a puzzle and solution in one, piquing the curiosity she'd left to atrophy since her world fell apart. What were its capabilities? How did it work?
Why did it work?
Would it help her get home?
The stranger, the
magus, flinched, and she realized she voiced her thoughts.
His response took nearly a minute to formulate. When he finally spoke, it was with a finality and palpable distress that looked so at odds to the bumbling man she'd become acquainted with that she found herself at a loss for words. "Magecraft can't bring back the dead, Shirou."
In that moment, something in him seemed genuinely
broken.
Why was it, she wondered, that he jumped to adoption so quickly? Did he lose something in the fire, too, and she just never noticed? Was she a replacement for someone else? Or…
She swallowed a heavy knot in her throat. She couldn't say she loved him at this point in time (or even
liked him), but she felt something in their relationship shift just a little. Different walks of life and different types of loss were united in their grief. It was easier to relate to someone's pains than their happiness.
No matter where they came from, nobody wanted to suffer.
Maybe Nurse Mitsuzuri was on to something. She wasn't an expert by any stretch, but if she could just make things a little bit better…
"Can we go for a walk?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He wasn't very talkative. Their previous conversation seemed to have taken a lot of wind out of his sails, but he wandered the neighborhood with her and let her ramble incoherently about anything that caught her interest ("Did you know that vultures in the Americas aren't related to any kinds found here? They evolved to do the same thing but…"). At around the thirty minute mark, the both of them were exhausted, and when they made their way back, she thought she saw him smile.
Something in it was triumphant.
4,960 words and a tiny bit over 15 pages in google docs. Originally posted on Spacebattles May 27th, 2023.
Not much to say here other than a thank-you for reading! ^-^
Research w/ Kinneret said:
- Kiritsugu really is a weird little guy, huh!
- Shirou is blatantly incorrect about things not blooming in winter; in fact, there are several varieties of flower that bloom exclusively during that season. Some popular winter flowers in Japan include daffodils, peonies, and camellias. You can read a bit more about Japanese winter flowers here~
- The flower department thing I actually got from speaking with an acquaintance who lives in Japan. Lots of small towns in her area have the aforementioned flower departments!
- Itadakimasu literally means 'I (humbly) receive'. It can be traced back to Japan's Buddhist roots. There's a lot more to it than that, and if you're so inclined, you can read more here.
- Not super relevant, but the takeout in the lunch scene comes from Family Mart, a Japanese convenience store.
- Umeboshi is an acquired taste.
- Vultures are really for real cool guys. This is an article about how old & new world vultures differ if u wanted the source for this chapter's unsolicited fun bird fact
