Author's Note: For InkStainsOnMyHands over on AO3, or soakedwithink on Tumblr. I had way too much fun with this one. XD

Chapter One

For as long as Tadashi can remember, the red string tied around his wrist has always been there.

He can't recall a time when he looked down at his hand and didn't see it; a thin, red string knotted into a delicate bow that Tadashi has never felt the urge to untie.

It exists only in his peripheral vision, distinct anytime his eyes focus elsewhere, yet transparent when he zones directly upon it.

Whatever resides at the other end of it is beyond him. He's tried time and time again to follow it and find out where it leads, but whenever the thought crosses his mind, the trail fades after he takes a maximum of five steps, unwilling or perhaps unable to reveal what it connects to him.

Tadashi lost count of how many nights he lay awake wondering how far away it stretches, and what—if anything—awaits him at the end.

More than once, he's considered seeking advice. But no one else can see it, and for that simple reason, Tadashi has never breathed a word.

Nonetheless, it's always there. Tied snugly around his littlest finger, deceptively sturdy and never fraying, and with each step he takes Tadashi wonders exactly what it is he's walking away from.

More than that, he ponders if he'll ever find out.

It's only a few years into his young life, during the summer between kindergarten and elementary school, that Tadashi feels the string do something.

-0-

He's spending the day with Aunt Cass when it happens.

Hands-down, Aunt Cass has always been his favourite relative: she's feisty and scatter-brained, but possesses a wicked sense of humour and makes the best cinnamon rolls, which she always offers him during visits to her café. Often two with a sly wink, if his mother isn't looking.

Today, Tadashi can't ignore the subtle shift in his aunt's behavior. It's nothing bad, thank goodness. It seems the opposite, in fact.

Aunt Cass is distracted, shooting periodic glances at the clock in-between taking orders, and she can't seem to keep herself steady. Be it wringing a dish towel, squeezing too much icing from the bag, or wearing groves in the floor from frantic pacing, she's constantly on the move as if fueled by a sugar high she can't descend from.

But despite her erratic behavior, her eyes are bright and her cheeks are pink. She looks how Tadashi feels on Christmas Eve.

"Aunt Cass?" he calls to her as she passes by his table, on her sixth lap around the café. Her attention is upon him instantly.

"Yes, sweetie?" She eyes his half-eaten cinnamon roll, then her eyebrows dart up. "Oh! You don't like the ones with raisins, do you? Sorry, Tadashi, I'm—gosh, I don't know what's wrong with me today. I'll get you a fresh one, straight from the oven. Better snag one now before the lunch time rush, right?"

Before Tadashi can muster a response, Aunt Cass vanishes behind the counter. By the time she returns and all but crams the pastry into her nephew's mouth, an elderly lady in a halter top settles herself at a table across the room, whisking Aunt Cass' attention away until the predicted lunch time rush keeps her busy for the remainder of the visit.

Tadashi vacates his table for the sake of a lovey-dovey young couple, and decides to do his high-strung aunt a favour by helping out. But he nearly drops one of the soapy dishes when he feels a soft tug on the red string.

Eyes abnormally wide, Tadashi stares.

Just the once; such a gentle tug it had barely been as such. But it definitely happened, that much he knows, and there is no way it was a fluke.

No way. There is no way ... right?

As real as the string feels coiled around his pinky, to anyone and anything else, it's like a tendril of smoke. Oblivious passersby walk right through it, it never gets caught between doors or on the coat rack, yet it fails to wear down however much its unknowingly tampered with.

But despite the odds ...

"What was that?" he asks quietly to no one, frowning at the barely visible bow.

That's the first, and presumably only change: as Tadashi squints and twists his wrist, the faint line of red never leaves his sight. He blinks hard until his eyes start to water, staring at the transparent bow that seems to toe the line between existence and invisibility. He almost wants to believe his eyes are playing tricks on him, like when he stares too long at his bedside lamp and he's temporarily blinded by inaccurate patches of colour.

Somehow—and he can't fathom why—he knows it would be easier to convince himself that breathing isn't necessary for survival.

Not that he gets to ponder on the subject.

A sudden yelp from the café snags his attention, and Aunt Cass wanders in, pink-cheeked and teary eyed, to scoop him up in a bone-crushing hug.

Tadashi nearly chokes under the intensity, legs numb by the time she legs up, then she's gone as soon as she'd appeared. He clutches the countertop and stares, more than a little on edge by the bizarre turn of events.

Frustration begins to mingle with confusion as Aunt Cass proceeds to cheerfully skip around her nephew's questions, substituting answers with an affectionate ruffle of his hair until Tadashi simply gives up and returns to his interrupted act of goodwill.

The dishwater is cold by the time he returns, but a thin ring of warmth pulses through his chilled fingers, and burns away the last of his hollow doubts.

Today's been weird, he decides, unknowing that it's far from over.

-0-

Something is decidedly off.

Tadashi makes that deduction the nano-second a bell jingles above the café door for the millionth time, this time announcing his parents' return. He can't put his finger on the 'why', and the 'how' becomes a dominant factor as he takes in the too-bright smiles on their faces.

"Tadashi!" his father cheerfully proclaims, crossing the space between them in three long strides and lifting his son off the ground. "We have some good news for you."

And there it is.

While Tadashi wants to match his father's grin, he's capable of little more than staring as his mother lightly bats her husband's arm.

"Not here, Tomeo," she scolds, but her gentle smile ruins it. "You promised to wait until we got home."

As they banter back and forth, one modest and the other a drama queen, Tadashi feels words fail him. The light mood lasts as they exit the café and strap him into the backseat of the car, both adults remaining tight-lipped over spilling the secret dancing upon their tongues. It's only when the car pulls into the driveway that Tadashi finds the means to break his silence.

"Mom, Dad? What's happening?"

They exchange a not-so subtle glance before his mother assures him, "Don't worry, darling. It's good news. Very good news."

He's thoroughly intrigued and a little on edge by the time he's sat down on the sofa, his mother on his left and his father to the right, each grasping one his hands.

"I know this might be a shock, but guess what?" Not that she gives him time to guess. "You're going to have a little brother or sister."

It's a bit embarrassing how long it takes for that to sink in. Tadashi stares up at his mother, idly aware of his jaw slackening, until he eventually stutters, "Wh-what?"

Tomeo throws back his head with a chortle, patting Tadashi's shoulder as he receives another light slap from his wife.

"You're going to be an older brother, Tadashi," she elaborates, positively glowing as she speaks. "Isn't it exciting?"

There's so much he wants—needs—to ask, but his vocal chords are paralyzed in his throat, which his father takes as the opportunity to throw in his two cents.

"We saw Dr. Sato today. I wanted to share the news when we phoned Cass, but your mother was insistent that we tell you in person."

"I had to make him promise not to spill the beans in the car."

"Oh hush, Maemi! It's a special occasion, can you blame me? Think about it—another Hamada in the house, won't that be something?"

The rest of their discussion is lost on Tadashi's ears as his mind races a mile a minute.

Him. An older brother. He was going to have a little brother or sister. Just the idea made him light-headed.

Tadashi has been an only child for all six years of his life. Granted, he can't remember the early part of those years, but what he can recall has always been a lonely existence.

Maybe it's harsh. He's not alone, per se. He has a lot of friends, two loving and attentive parents, and lives in a very friendly neighbourhood. Really, he's never known the true definition of loneliness, yet he's never had the ability to shake that feeling. He listens to his classmates talk of their siblings, from annoying little brothers to aloof older sisters, and he feels pangs of envy.

Tadashi has never wanted for anything. Between his minimalistic desires and his parents' well-paying careers, the rare times he requests something has always been met. But as he watches a friend walk away with their sibling, hand-in-hand, Tadashi wishes he had a little brother or sister. Someone to joke around with, pulls pranks on, have sneaky sleepovers, elaborate inside secrets, and so much more that he would never experience as an only child.

It feels like strange irony that the one wish he never spoke aloud becomes the one that means everything and more.

-0-

Like any other child of his age, Tadashi knows very little of the phases of pregnancy. Around the fourth month is when he decides it was a happier time.

He tries to be helpful, knowing from the talk his father gave him that pregnancy can be a difficult time for a woman, but his level of success is a consistently moving target. Between his mother's delirious mood swings and ever-changing cravings, Tadashi creeps across fine glass as his father dashes out at three-thirty in the morning to buy a family pack of gummy bears from the twenty-four hour off-license down the road.

Tadashi is lying awake in bed as the front door closes and his mother patters about in her bedroom, grumbling words beneath her breath meant for no one's ears but her own. He humours the idea of getting up and offering comfort, but it's a fifty-fifty chance of being accepted with teary hugs and getting scolded for being out of bed at such an hour.

So he snuggles beneath warm blankets and rests a hand on his pillow. Months later, and the faint red blip against his skin never ceases to surprise him. Though in those countless observations made night after night, nothing else has changed. It's no more visible in the dark than it is in the day, and as docile as it had been for six and a half years.

It's curiosity that gives him the bright idea to loop the delicate string around his index finger, but caution negates the remainder of his intention. Four months prior, his fingers phased through the red string just like everyone else's, but now the thread is so very real against his skin. And that makes it fragile.

He thinks back to the time his mother taught him cross-stitching. She occasionally snapped a length of thread with her bare hands when she couldn't find the scissors, an act she made look so easy that it fills Tadashi with anxiety now. If he tugged on the string, would it break? It's so slender, so devastatingly fragile that he feels just touching it has condemned it's fate, like times before when he unknowingly grazed a spider's web. However gentle he was in prying himself away, the frail web collapsed.

Oh, how he wishes he had just one clue to solve the mystery.

He'd long since given up on following the string. There wasn't much point, he realized, if the trail disappeared every time he thought about investigating. That itself never made sense to him—why did the string exist if it refused to serve it's purpose?

Still, he was talking about a semi-visible bit of string. That in itself was impossible, so why bother complaining?

Tadashi glances down at his hand as he lets the loop unravel. Unlike the spider's silk, the thread is undamaged by his touch. But it raises a thought, if it might be possible to follow the trail now that he can see it fully.

His mind is set on the negative, but where's the harm in trying?

As Tadashi kicks back his duvet and sets his bare feet on the cold floor, he releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. There's no visible change to the string as he stands up, nor as he takes the first step forward.

So far so good, but it takes a full minute to manage a second step. Thirty seconds for the third. Barely five for the next.

Twelve steps later and he's by his bedroom door, light spilling in from the hallway, and the red trail hasn't faded.

Tadashi swears his heart skips a beat. Is this it? Does this mean he'll finally locate the other end? Or is this where Aunt Cass' advice of "knowing when to stop" comes into play?

He takes a moment to think about it rationally, however it might play out. Maybe it won't flicker and fade, but it's obvious he can't trek across San Fransokyo by himself, much less at night.

To the front door. That's as far as he'll go. And if it's still visible, he'll make preparations into seeing if he can go further in the morning.

But he barely reaches the top of the staircase when he hears a quiet, "Tadashi?" from his parents room. He freezes to the cold floor, craning his neck in the direction of his mother's voice.

"Yeah," he calls back. "I couldn't sleep. Was gonna get some water."

It's not a lie, not really. He sincerely couldn't sleep and, well, he'd have likely gotten a glass of water before heading back up, as usual. Either way, Tadashi dashes down the stairs before he can be called back, feeling just a slight ebb of guilt at doing so, and ends up wishing he hadn't.

He stands in the kitchen, way past his bedtime as the rest of San Fransokyo sleeps, and the red string around his finger isn't there.

Honestly, he'd have thought he'd be used to this disappointment by now.

As he lets his hand slump to his side, Tadashi fetches his glass of water, and ascends the staircase. He lingers just long enough to whisper, "Night, mom," before heading to his room.

"Tadashi, dear?"

His mother's voice is calm, devoid of the underlying bite that accompanies her wayward frustration. Tired she may be, but she's in a better mood. That, at least, is reassuring.

"Yes, mom?"

"Come in here for a moment, will you?"

In all good nature, he can't deny her that. Tadashi places his water on the hallway table, then nudges open his parents' door. The bedside lamp is on, filling the room with a comfortable glow, and his mother is swathed in bed sheets, looking tired and disheveled but smiling kindly through it.

She doesn't speak, merely extends her arms to her son, silently requesting his presence. Once he steps within her range, Maemi scoops him into a one-armed hug. She can barely lean forward due to her distended belly, making the exchange more than a little awkward, but Tadashi doesn't have the heart to criticize.

Though when Maemi lets go and pats the empty space beside her, within seconds Tadashi has circled round the bed and clambered onto the mattress. Any other day, he'd snuggle up to his mother's side and fall asleep nestled comfortably in the duvet, but he knows he can't really do that anymore. Not until there's another little boy or girl present to share the group hug.

He looks down at her swollen belly, which he knows will get bigger as the months drizzle on. It's surreal to think that's his brother or sister growing inside her, little by little each day, and Tadashi wonders what it's like for her.

He's held a baby only once, the first born of some distant uncle of a friend or other, but he remembers how heavy little Rika was. Had Tadashi not been sitting, he knows he would have dropped her. His poor mother carries the weight that made his own arms die within the minute, only she can't let go for four more months.

Tadashi swears he will never again get upset about his mother's mood swings. Who wouldn't be cranky in her predicament?

"You know, we still haven't decided on a name," she comments idly, tracing her index finger over the taut material of her shirt.

A name, huh? Tadashi hasn't considered a name. All this time, he thinks of his sibling-to-be as simply Otōto or Imōto. The thought of his mother requesting his input of naming his brother or sister is a little staggering.

But if he's honest, it's also a tad thrilling.

He thinks back to a time when he was told of the origins of his own name, when he learned the kanji for loyalty. His father said he knew in his heart it was the correct choice, while his mother claimed it was a lucky guess. First and foremost, it's necessary for your name to represent who you are, isn't it?

Except how could he possibly know what his sibling will be like before they're here? He tells his mother as much, and she nods slightly.

"I don't suppose we'll get lucky twice, hm?" she teases, ruffling his hair. "This is the worst part. Did you know your father and I spent two whole years trying to decide on a name for you? And that was before I was pregnant. Fortunately, he's laying off it this time. Thinks it'll come to him, like yours did."

Tadashi smiles with her, but his mind races. This isn't something that can be thought up in a single night, but as good a time as any to start. He thinks over the few kanji he knows of, a sparse selection ranging from 'love' to 'lucky' and 'generous'.

Meaningful, yes. But so generic. Not very specific.

"You're right. It's hard," Tadashi laments as he leans against the pillow. "It has to be perfect, or what's the point?"

"Very true. I suppose true genius can't be forced." She reclines comfortably against the pillow, eyes glazed in thought. "Five months along. You were kicking by this point."

"Really?"

"I thought we'd have to sign you up for soccer practice right off the bat. Gosh, I'm this certain you were so impatient to be born you tried to break your way out. At least one of my children is considerate enough to ease up on the abuse." She places her hand to her belly and closes her eyes. "Nope, nothing. Maybe this one will be the lazy child, hm?"

"Maybe he's bidding his time."

She laughs. It's a little too loud, but unrestrained and melodious, and Tadashi can't help but smile with her. "Here," she lowers her hands. "Perhaps they'll kick for you."

His hands tremble as he places his hand to her stomach, enough that he's certain she feels it, and maybe his sibling does, too. Though Tadashi isn't sure what he's anticipating from this, he waits nonetheless.

His answer comes seconds later. In unison, both Tadashi and his mother stiffen, drawing short, sharp breaths.

Whoa. Was that—?

Yes. There's no denying it.

Tadashi feels the strain on his brow as his eyes widen to their limit, and he's pretty sure his jaw is hanging open, but frankly he doesn't care. That's his sibling; his otōto or imōto, and they're kicking.

They're kicking for him.

(And it would be years before he can put a name to the warm fluttering that envelops his heart.)

Truly, there are no words he can string together from his limited vocabulary to describe the sensation he feels beneath his palm. His unborn sibling's first ever movements, an active response to Tadashi's touch, and he can't keep the smile from his face after a particularly insistent nudge.

The movement seems to have given his mother a shot of energy, but Tadashi imagines she'd be more enthusiastic if not weighed down by the exhaustion caused by the halfway matured bun in the oven.

"Wow."

It takes Tadashi a moment to recognize the voice as his own, and it makes him smile all the more. Because really, what else is there to say?

The baby lets up barely a minute later, tuckered out by their first kicking, and Tadashi presses a light kiss to where his hand rested. He sleeps soundly that night in a nest of comfortable blankets, alongside his mother and unborn sibling.

And to unseeing eyes, the thread glows crimson.

-0-

His brother is due at the end of the month.

Yes, his little brother, not sister. While Tadashi told himself he wanted it to be a surprise on the birth date, he'd cracked exactly thirty-eight hours, twelve minutes, and fifty seven seconds after his parents returned from the ultra-sound, and had literally begged them to indulge the information he'd forced them to keep under tight wraps.

In hindsight, he should be cross with his parents for their weak will. Or at least his father, as his mother had always been the tough walnut to crack.

Either way, Tadashi goes to bed that night too energized to sleep. A part of him is irritated at himself for his own weak will, but it's swamped in comparison to the awe he felt.

He is going to have a baby brother.

"The Hamada brothers," Aunt Cass chimes. "Two little boys! Oh, you'd better take care of him, Tadashi. You hear me?" She elbows Tomeo in the ribs. "A kid can't have anything better than an older brother. So you'd better be the very best."

That's a vow Tadashi already made months ago.

-0-

The red string is mostly dormant, but occasionally Tadashi feels a light tug, so subtle it's barely there. Just as it had done in the beginning. And while he never trusts himself to respond to the silent communication, the gentle movement blooms a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach.

Until today.

Today has been weird. Tadashi wouldn't go so far as to say it's bad, but everything from the breakfast waffles to the air he breathes sets him on edge. And he doesn't understand why.

Aunt Cass always told him to never ignore funny feelings. ("It isn't always just nothing. Those hairs on the back of your neck? They tell the truth.") She's never steered him wrong before now, so he sees no reason to break a good habit.

He's cautious, from the moment he opens his eyes through every step of his day. There's nothing remotely special about said day, even his parents seem blissfully unaware of the potential shift Tadashi can foresee but can't decipher.

Actually, he takes it back. There is one thing about today that is glaringly out of the ordinary: the red string is uncharacteristically active. Once an hour, roughly, Tadashi feels that soft tug. It's as unnerving as it is reassuring. But it's only when a particularly sharp tug makes his whole hand twitch that Tadashi decides it is certainly not a coincidence.

Trouble, perhaps? He envisions someone clinging to the other end of the string, desperately dialing out for help through morse code. Disturbingly, it doesn't feel too far off the mark.

His first instinct is to call his father, but Tomeo left ten minutes ago to restock the emergency supply of gummy bears. And on an unexpectedly nice day in early spring, he chose to make the journey on foot. He won't be back for at least an extra half an hour.

Somehow, Tadashi knows that's too long. So he takes option number two.

"Mom?"

His voices echoes up the stairway, and the ensuring silence is oppressive. Wrong, definitely wrong.

Tadashi runs up the stairs, skipping two steps at a time and nearly falling flat on his face, but his balance wins out and he skids to a halt outside his parents' bedroom door. For the life in him, he doesn't know why he stopped here specifically, but it feels like the correct choice and he's in no mood to question the bizarre sixth sense.

He knocks once, then twice, three times. No response. So he doesn't bother requesting entry, he barges right in.

Though the shock almost knocks him out, he's not regretful.

Maemi sits in the corner of the room, pale-faced and too sweaty as she clutches the fabric that strains over her bulging stomach. The carpet beneath her is stained with red.

"T-Tad—dashi," she whines through grit teeth, face scrunched up in agony.

For once in his life, Tadashi had zero remedy for this. What should he do? Call for help? Get towels? Hug her? Calm her down? Deliver the baby himself!? He trembles from head-to-toe, coldness creeping over his skin as his blood tries to flee his body, not unlike his mother's had.

Oh god, his mother is bleeding and no amount of Band-Aids or "kissing it better" will fix up this injury. Options, remedies, what is he supposed to do!?

He's not ready. He can't do this. How was he supposed to prepare—

His mother arches her back, a deep groan rumbling in her throat as she cages in her audible pain. And the severity of it strikes Tadashi. This isn't 'normal,' it's a dangerous alternative.

Right here and now, could his mother die?

No.

No, it can't, she can't—

And his brother, that baby boy safely inside their mother, will lose his chance to live if her heart stops beating.

That awakens something inside Tadashi. His body acts before his brain can catch up. Somewhere alone the line, as he shakily coaxes his mother through a rhythm of deep, steady breathing, puts a damp towel to her sweaty forehead, and squeezes her hand as tight as she grips his, he holds the phone to his ear and relays the limited information he understands of the situation. He's certain that little of it makes sense, but as a couple in green burst upstairs and through the door, he realizes they must have gotten the gist.

The next few hours pass by in a flurry. And it must have been hours, because when he finally makes sense of things, the sun has vanished from the sky and darkness takes its place.

Aunt Cass is kneeling before him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him as he sits stiffly on a plastic chair in the white-washed waiting room. Wait, when did she arrive? She's crying, tear tracks drying on flushed cheeks, and speaking words Tadashi can't hear through buzzing ears. So he does the only thing he can: he reaches out and hugs her tightly.

The action breaks her. She sobs openly, arms tightening around her nephew, who cries loudly with her. It's cathartic to let loose the emotion he's wrapped up so tightly yet didn't realize was there, and the panicked fog in his mind thins substantially until everything is laid bare.

His mother.

His unborn little brother.

Are they safe?

"I think so," Aunt Cass whispers. Had he spoken aloud? "They won't tell me anything, but they should be. You helped them, Tadashi."

He frowns against her shoulder. Helped? What happened during those black-out hours?

Tadashi stares down at his hand, and so nearly faints in relief at the faint red string coiled around his little finger, no different than the day before. He doesn't understand the comfort that crimson blip provides, but he's so tired, so scared, so tempted to curl up and sleep until everything is safe and sound once more, that he curls up in Aunt Cass' lap as she strokes his hair and hums a lullaby off-key.

-0-

When he opens his eyes again, the soothing melody has ended. Aunt Cass sleeps fitfully in the uncomfortable chair, arms wrapped securely around her nephew like he anchors her to the Earth.

It's quiet and still dark. Where is the clock? Would moving his head rouse his aunt? She looks so exhausted, it wouldn't settle well on his conscience to deprive her of much needed rest. So he nuzzles closer, his personal shield from the reality he doesn't want to think about, and stares down at the red string.

Tadashi knows full well that he could stare at the opaque bow for as long as he needs to breathe and he could never become desensitized to its hypnotic spell.

But the other end is so still, and anxiety twists his stomach into a knot. Is everything alright? Has their cry for help been answered? Does anything or anyone hold the other end?

He supposes there's only one way to find out.

Many times before, he's practiced this one little trick, should the day come in which he dares himself to take the extra step. He repeats the notion unconsciously sometimes, coiling then loosening the thread around his index finger, a small habit of his that picks away at his unease bit by bit.

And the red string seems so fragile still, neither stronger nor weaker eight months on, but Tadashi can't bear lack of answers anymore.

With a deep breath, he tugs on the string, so painstakingly softly that his finger barely twitches. For a while, he doubts the reaction was felt by the person or place on the other end, and he doesn't want to push his luck.

But how long is it later? Barely ten seconds, maybe. The pause drags on for what feels like an hour, but that's when Tadashi feels the light pull in response. No words are spoken, yet the action speaks volumes.

And Tadashi sleeps curled up with a smile on his lips and a burden lifted from his heart.

-0-

Author's Note: Once again, this was meant to be 3000 words, give or take. *glances at increasing word count*