Cigarettes and Chocolate
"Tadaima," I call out wearily as I shut the door to the apartment behind me. It's no little relief to get away from the station and its frenetic workload - even though I know that by morning I'll be itching to be back there in the thick of it all. It's something of an addiction for me, one I've never been able to escape completely, no matter the pleas and promises made, no matter who I was hurting.
"Hi Dad," Yamato's voice emerges from the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready."
The aroma wafting down the hallway is enough to make my mouth water and my stomach clench in hunger. I try to remember the last time I actually ate as I pull off my coat and shoes, and draw a blank between now and breakfast. It had been something of a busy day.
"Smells good," I inform my son as I enter the kitchen.
"I'll just be a couple more minutes," he says over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pots and pans on the stove. I take the time to wash the grime from my hands and face before settling myself at the table. Our places are already laid out in a most meticulous manner - one that reminds me of his mother.
I spend the next few minutes quietly observing my son as he finishes preparing our meal. In so many ways he's very much like her. It's not just his physical appearance, although it's obvious he gets his colouring from her, as well as his slender frame. Put a few curves on him and I might just be fooled for a moment or two, especially now that he's let his hair grow out a little. Especially while his back is turned to me. Especially while he's wearing that apron...
She had one just like it, I recall. I wonder if he remembers. I hope not. I shouldn't have bought it for him in the first place, I suppose. Just another reminder that I don't need, and yet do.
"How was your day?" I ask as he places my plate in front of me. It's the start of a ritual we've both grown accustomed to over the years, on the occasions when I've actually made it home in time for dinner.
"Okay," he answers and puts his own plate on the table, taking off his apron and draping it over the back of his chair before sitting down. "Yours?"
"Busy."
With those familiar words out of the way we both turn our attention to the food in front of us. I keep one eye on him as we eat, though. His manner generally gives away his mood, despite the poker-face he's been working so hard on perfecting. If he's content then I can amuse myself by observing the rate at which food disappears from his plate. If he's angry or frustrated I usually let him take it out on his defenseless meal before even attempting to talk with him.
This time he picks at his food, shuffling it around on his plate, taking bites only absent-mindedly. Thoughtful, worried or depressed. I pray it's not the last. I've never been particularly good at dealing with that one. It's one of the main reasons I'm divorced.
I stay silent for most of the meal, hoping that he'll give me some indication of what's going on in his head. It isn't much of a hope, really, but I'm always careful to give him the chance to start talking first. I never truly gave his mother that chance, I realise now with the clarity of hindsight. Maybe it's because I never shared many dinners with her. She always ate early with the boys. Perhaps if I'd been there to watch her as I watch Yamato now...
Perhaps. I'll never know for sure.
"You loved Mom, right?"
I freeze at the unexpected nature of the question, brushing so closely upon my own thoughts, but manage to pull myself out of it - only to lose myself in his eyes. As blue as hers, and just as expressive when he wishes them so. As he does now.
"Yes," I find myself answering. "I loved your mother." 'Love' seems such a strange word for it. The good times we shared feel so distant, and yet the pain is still as fresh as new paint - it lingers in the air no matter how wide the windows are opened to catch the breeze.
"Why'd you stop?"
"I didn't. It just wasn't enough."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," I sigh. "She wasn't happy. I was making her unhappy, even though I didn't mean to, didn't want to."
"So you left." I search his face for signs of accusation, but find only the barest traces of sorrow and pain.
"It hurt us both less being apart than being together." He bows his head at that, and I can no longer see his eyes. "I'm sorry."
He looks up sharply. "Why?"
"We should never have separated you and your brother like we did. We didn't mean to hurt you as well."
He stares at me for a long moment, before looking away with a slight shrug of his shoulders - and a faintly bitter twist to his mouth. I wait a bit, but he stays silent. I take the opportunity to clear the table and carry our plates to the sink. I consider starting the washing up - but Yamato is still sitting there at the table. I rejoin him, resting my elbows on the table and steepling my hands in front of my mouth. We sit there for some time before he finally speaks again.
"Have you ever loved anyone other than Mom?"
"Why do you ask?" I don't really expect a response, so I'm not surprised when he shrugs my query off.
"Have you?"
"In a romantic sense... I've never loved anyone more than your mother."
"But you've been attracted to other women."
"Yes." I have to wonder just what it is he's leading up to - suggesting that I get back together with his mother? I might expect that of Takeru, but not Yamato. That I should go out more often, meet new women? Not Yamato's style, either. What is he getting at?
"What about other guys?"
Ah.
He stares at me with that penetrating gaze of his and I know he won't be moving until he gets an answer. Needing time to think, I snag the pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket, pulling one out and tossing the pack on the table before lighting up.
He doesn't even blink.
I inhale deeply, drawing the smoke into my lungs as though it's my last hope of salvation, then exhale heavily.
"Occasionally," I admit, and watch as some of the tension drains out of his posture. "But never enough to actually do something about it - which is what you're really asking, isn't it?"
He doesn't say anything, but the flushed state of his cheeks renders words unnecessary.
He doesn't look away, either.
"So," I say at last. "You have a crush on a boy." I pointedly make it a statement rather than a question.
He starts to reply, stops, then presses on in low tones, "More than a crush."
I lean back in my chair, considering those telling words and casting them in the light of the whole conversation so far. My son believes he's in love with another boy, and wants to know how I feel about it. It sounds so simple when phrased like that, and yet...
"Does he know how you feel?"
He examines the wooden surface of the table closely, his expression blank.
"No." Such a significant little word.
"Maybe you should have had this conversation with him before coming to me."
His demeanour indicates that he's not particularly amenable to this suggestion. We sit in silence for a few moments longer before he reaches over to the packet of cigarettes. I slap his hand to the table before he can pick them up. I know he's been smoking them behind my back recently, but this is the first time he's tried to take one right under my nose.
"If you want something to steady your nerves before you talk to him, try coffee or a chocolate bar instead. They're just as addictive, not so bad for your health, and they taste a hell of a lot better."
He glares at me, but withdraws his hand and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes focus on the lit cigarette in my hands, and I swear it's burning faster now, under his intense scrutiny.
"Yamato," I sigh, recognising the obstinate light in his eyes. This once I give in and consign the half-smoked cigarette to the ashtray.
He blinks at his unexpected victory, his expression becoming faintly curious.
"I'm serious. Leave the cigarettes alone."
"You smoke all the time."
"And I regret it every single time."
"I'm not you. I can make my own decisions, Dad."
"Want to tell me why we're having this discussion, then?" A frown creases his brow, his expression slightly confused. "Your mother hated my smoking." His frown deepens, along with his puzzlement. "It was one more thing that we couldn't sort out."
"What does that have to do with - " He halts in mid-sentence, comprehension rising in his eyes.
"Love's an addiction, Yamato, just like cigarettes or chocolate. It can be sweet, but it can also destroy you if you're not careful."
He considers that statement, blue eyes thoughtful. "Was it worth it, for you? Worth all the pain you and Mom went through?"
"For me..." I close my eyes briefly, reflecting on the eight years I'd been married to his mother. All in all, it came out pretty much even in terms of good and bad points. Except for one thing. "You make it worth it," I tell him, opening my eyes once more. "You, and your brother, also, to some degree."
He frowns, and I can see the question written in his expression in bold black text, but I wait for him to actually ask it aloud - and when he does, it isn't quite what I was expecting.
"Dad?" he questions in hushed, deadly serious tones. "I heard you and Mom arguing over us during the divorce." I have to work hard not to clench my hands into fists at those words. We'd both tried our damnedest to keep our sons from having to listen to us fight, and to hear now that we'd been lax for that of all arguments... "Why did you want me, and not Takeru?"
I hesitate for a few tense moments, before telling him the truth. "You're more like your mother than he is. I couldn't let her go completely."
Surprise flits across his face before his expression alters to a strange blend of emotions that I'm not certain I want to identify.
"So. Which do you think your would-be boyfriend will find more appealing when you kiss him - the taste of cigarettes or of chocolate?"
"I think he'd need the coffee, actually..." His lips quirk in a slight smile as he seems to look through the table rather than at it.
"Do I know him?" I ask, curious to know who exactly it is. I have my suspicions already, but...
He hesitates before nodding briefly, not offering any more information. My mind wanders through memories of Yamato's friends, and I find I really haven't met that many. There are the boys in his band, who stop by occasionally when they want to work on something, but I can't see it being one of them. Apart from the band, his friends - that I know of, anyway - mainly consist of the rest of the eight children who were chosen to save the world from digital monsters four years ago. Three of those children are girls, Takeru is one of the boys, and out of the remaining three...
"Talk to him," I tell him. "Even if he doesn't return your feelings, I'm sure he wouldn't hurt you deliberately."
"How do you know that?" he asks, and I can see the doubt in his eyes, the anxious twist of his mouth.
"Taichi's a good kid," I hazard my best guess, and strike lucky.
His blue eyes are as wide and open as I've ever seen them, mirroring all his needs, hopes and fears in their depths. It's been years since I last saw him so completely unguarded, not since the day he and I moved out of the apartment where we'd last been a family of four. It was at that moment I realized what a truly horrible thing we'd done, Natsuko and I. It had been bad enough seeing her soul so bared in her gaze - but we had brought that pain upon ourselves. We were fortunate that Takeru was too young to fully understand what was happening, but Yamato... He should not have had to suffer like that.
Perhaps Taichi will be the means to appease that hurt for all time. I certainly hope so.
"Of course, if he breaks your heart, I'll break him."
"Dad!"
"That is, if your brother doesn't beat me to it," I continue, grinning slightly. He shakes his head slowly, a smile forming on his lips once more.
"Thanks, Dad."
I stand and move to clap him on the shoulder - only to get pulled into a tight hug. It startles me, as he usually shies away from close physical contact - apart from with Takeru - even more than I do; but I take full advantage of this rare occasion and hold him close.
"Be happy, Yamato," I murmur, brushing my fingers through his fine blond hair. "Whatever happens."
Please, be happy. That's all I'll ever ask.
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