Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, I make no profit, please don't sue me.

The Littlest Warrior

The adults are gathered together under the bright halogen lights, talking in hushed voices, so Takashi tiptoes from his chair and through the door. It's dark inside, the blinds drawn against a miserable day; he can hear the tap-tap of rain against the window, and a distant rumble of thunder.

There's a bed pushed against the far wall, with strange machines hovering on either side like mechanical vultures. Takashi watches them for a long moment. The flashing lights are hypnotic in the gloom, but his eyes are drawn inevitably to the bed. Takashi approaches with caution, keeps his ears peeled for footsteps coming from the hallway, but there are none and between one blink and the next he's stood beside the bed.

The cold metal railings bite into his hands when he grips them. He barely notices. Takashi stares hard at the figure in the bed, at pale hair limp against the pillow and lips as papery white as the sheets. Despite the methodical beep-beep of the machines, he presses one trembling hand to a narrow chest and feels for breath. It comes, too shallow and too soft.

There's a lump in his throat and a feeling in his gut like grass snakes trapped in a bucket. "Mitsukuni," Takashi whispers. No response. He grips the railings again in both hands, but his knees are somehow weak and he finds himself kneeling on the cold tile floor. Closing his eyes, he rests his forehead on the edge of the bed and listens for each tiny breath between the patter of rain against the windows.

"Yuma-san, Yuma-san! Measure us!" Mitsukuni pulls Takashi along by the wrist towards their nanny, a crayon clutched tightly in his fist.

"Hani-kun," she admonishes, "I measured you both last week." Undeterred, Mitsukuni positions Takashi against the wall without so much as a by-your-leave and promptly lines himself up next to him.

"But I've had a growth spurt! See?" He makes a clumsy attempt at drawing the line above his own head, before Takashi deftly removes the crayon and hands it to Yuma-san.

"Alright, alright. Stay still. And no tiptoeing, Hani-kun!" The boy nods and stands still and obedient until Yuma-san has drawn the line above his head. She draws one over Takashi as well.

"Aha! See? I told you I'd grown, Takashi! See? I'm the same height as you now!" Takashi looks at the two marks on the wall, thick purple and crumbly, at exactly the same distance from the floor, until Mitsukuni grabs him in a headlock and he's forced into an impromptu spar.

Mitsukuni is a great martial artist. He is much better than Takashi at hand-to-hand combat, and his attacks are always vigorous and inventive. Takashi doesn't mind this at all. He spends his days following Mitsukuni around their adjoining mansions, tumbling into and out of fights in the precious few hours they have free from dedicated training. Mitsukuni leads him on fantastic adventures through the gardens; they pretend they're ninjas (Mitsukuni is best at this game), or samurai (Takashi likes this the most), and Yuma-san is always the empress they must protect (Takashi's mother laughs at this; Mitsukuni's mother is still too sick to leave her room).

And if Mitsukuni gets a little proud when he throws Takashi for the seventh time in as many minutes, well, Takashi is better with a kendo stick – or a mop, if necessary.

Takashi finds Mitsukuni curled up in his bed hours after Yuma-san was meant to wake him up. This is not unusual anymore. Stepping carefully over the toys and clothes scattered across the floor, Takashi makes his way to the bed and crawls on.

"Mitsukuni," he says, and shoves a bony shoulder. There's a weak-sounding mumble, but no movement. Takashi frowns. "Mitsukuni, wake up."

"I'm still sleepy," he replies. His mild answer is more than enough to pique Takashi's worry, but this too has become normal.

Mitsukuni is ill – Takashi is sure of it – but no one believes him when he tells them.

"It's time to get up," he says. Mitsukuni rolls over, throwing an arm around Takashi's middle. It feels so thin and bony, nothing like the corded muscle in his own biceps. Yuma-san says Takashi will grow as big as his father one day, and he's always thought Mitsukuni would match him inch for inch. It's been months since they last stood against the wall to be measured in crayon, but it's not hard to see that whilst Takashi has shot up in height with enough speed to make his joints ache in the cold, Mitsukuni … hasn't.

The door slides open and Yuma-san stands silhouetted in the entrance. "Is he awake, Mori-kun?" she asks softly. Mitsukuni struggles to throw off his covers as he sits up; the crown of his head barely comes to Takashi's chin.

"Yuma-san, I don't want to get out of bed today. I don't feel well," he says. Yuma-san walks towards them, picking up clothes as she passes. She piles them on the bed to feel Mitsukuni's forehead.

"You don't have a temperature." He folds his arms.

"I'm tired. All the time." She gives him a considering look. Takashi watches, wondering if she will see what he has been noticing for months now.

"I'm sure it's just a touch of flu or something. You'll feel better if you get up. Come on, Hani-kun. Your father wants you in the dojo in half an hour." Mitsukuni's shoulders slump in defeat, so Takashi makes sure to give him extra help in getting ready for the day.

The door slides shut behind Haninozuka-sensei after an exhausting sparring session. Takashi is not supposed to be there. No matter the close relationship between their families, Haninozukas train in-house; their secrecy ensures their continued survival. But where Mitsukuni is concerned, Takashi is willing to break any boundaries. Even those against him watching his cousin be soundly defeated by their sensei, leaving Mitsukuni a quivering, sweaty mess. Even those that say he should not creep into the dojo after his cousin has collapsed.

"Mitsukuni?" Flexing his toes against the tacky floor, he stands over the prostrate body. Pale apart from two high spots of colour on his cheeks, Mitukuni struggles to bring gasping breaths under control. His hair is dark, matted, and stuck wetly to his head. Takashi squats and places his hand on Mitsukuni's shoulder.

"I'm so tired," Mitsukuni whines. There's hair stuck to his eyelids with sweat. His hands leave sticky prints on the floor.

Takashi is nine years old, but thanks to good genes and years of training he's big and strong for his age. One hand under the knees, the other under thin shoulders, he lifts Mitsukuni's slight frame effortlessly. It's like carrying Satomi to bed after a late night, all bony elbows and xylophone ribs. Mitsukuni offers him a weary smile, wraps his arms around Takashi's neck. His eyes are blurry and there are tears gathered in the lashes like beads.

"So tired," he mumbles. He goes limp in Takashi's arms.

"Hani-kun, will you please sit down!" Yuma-san never yells, but she has a tone of voice she employs only when Mitsukuni is being his most disobedient. Takashi knows that Mitsukuni has been to the quiet wing of the Haninozuka mansion, where his mother rests in her sickbed. His visits are rare and precious, but the short time of stillness coupled with the sheer excitement of seeing his mother means that Mitsukuni will be hyperactive for the rest of the day.

"Takashi, Takashi! Let's go play by the koi pond! We can pretend to be pirates!" Mitsukuni is like a typhoon blustering through his room, tossing sweatshirts and coats like debris in his wake. Yuma-san follows, picking up everything her ward abandons.

"Hani-kun, please wait a moment," she orders. Takashi closes his book and places it on the arm of his chair. He waits until Mitsukuni blows past and then launches without warning, ploughing into the other boy with enough force to knock him to the floor.

But Mitsukuni is a great martial artist, and he wriggles free in seconds, eyes alight with laughter. "You'll have to be faster than that, Takashi!" he crows, wagging his finger in admonishment. Takashi smirks, much to his cousin's confusion, until Yuma-san circles from behind and captures him in her arms. Mitsukuni yelps and flails, but he knows better than to use his training on his nanny. She wrestles him into appropriate outerwear, sneaking in the occasional tickle-attack that has Mitsukuni in stitches.

Takashi barely has his own scarf wrapped around his neck before he is pulled through the door. They crash through the halls, stuff their feet into the boots left by the door the day before, and tumble out into a glorious autumn afternoon. Yuma-san watches the fierce battles between pirate scoundrel Takashi and ninja hero Mitsukuni from her position on a bench by the pond until sunset, when she fetches them hot chocolate from the kitchens. Mitsukuni has burnt himself out by this point, almost falling asleep in his cocoa. Takashi makes a convenient pillow, but night is fast approaching and their noses have long turned red.

"Shall I carry him?" Yuma-san muses aloud. Takashi almost offers, but Mitsukuni forces his eyes open and sits up, pouting at Yuma-san.

"Haninozuka men do not accept such aid unless grievously wounded," he says, almost word for word what his father has taught him. Yuma-san bites her lip, a line forming between her eyebrows, but she takes his mug without prompting. Takashi follows him back into the house, and spares only a brief look at Yuma-san left sitting on the bench.

"Takashi-kun."

"Yes sensei?"

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Mitsukuni? Are you?"

"Yes father."

Takashi thinks only he noticed the slight pause before Mitsukuni's answer, but there's no time to ponder on it because the command is given and his cousin is raining blows down almost faster than he can block them. They have been training together since they were toddlers barely able to walk; Takashi knows Mitsukuni's moves as well as his own. And so he notices that Mitsukuni is sluggish, his punches slightly sloppy, his kicks not as high as they should be on so tall a target. Takashi's long limbs are an advantage until Mitsukuni gets inside his guard, which is normally within the first few seconds of a fight, but –

An opening. Takashi takes it without a second thought, grabs hold of Mitsukuni's clothing and tosses him backwards to the floor. They've been trained on how to roll for these attacks in order to minimise damage. Mitsukuni does not roll. Almost in slow motion, Takashi sees his cousin's body arc through the air, arms wheeling, eyes wide in panic. And then –

"End fight. Takashi-kun wins!" Nobody moves. Haninozuka-sensei looks equal parts shocked and devastated. Takashi can't tear his eyes away from his opponent, his cousin, sprawled on the floor where he landed, and all he can think is he didn't roll.

"Get up, Mitsukuni," Haninozuka-sensei orders sharply. No response. Takashi sucks in a sudden breath and holds it when he slowly approaches his cousin. He doesn't think Mitsukuni will slip in a sneak attack, a leg sweep maybe, because he's been so tired all this time, and that fight was clearly unfair –

Mitsukuni's eyes are shut. Kneeling, Takashi leans over his cousin until he can feel soft puffs of warm breath on his cheek. "Mitsukuni," he murmurs. Not even a twitch of the eye. Takashi replays the fight in his mind: the poor technique and the inexplicable panic and the fact that he didn't roll.

"He's unconscious," the referee reports to Haninozuka-sensei with a deep bow. In a flash, Haninozuka-sensei is on the other side of Mitsukuni, hands cradling his son's head as he feels for suspicious bumps. But Takashi saw him fall, saw him land not so much on his head as on his neck with a crack that still rings in his ears.

"Call my driver at once," sensei snaps, standing with Mitsukuni in his arms. He blinks down at the boy in seeming surprise at his slight weight; Takashi wonders if now people will finally believe that Mitsukuni is ill and has been for a long time. "Takashi-kun, go home. Tell your father to meet me at the hospital."

He's left kneeling on the floor of the dojo after the first and only fight he's ever won against Mitsukuni, a feeling like molten iron sitting hot and bubbly in his stomach.

Usa-chan is clutched firmly in his hand when he enters the hospital room for the first time. The sunlight glaring through the wall of windows is blinding, and he squints until his eyes adjust. Mitsukuni is sitting up in bed, the pale pyjamas bleaching all colour from his skin so that he looks as sick as he is. No one has told Takashi anything – he tried to assert his right to know as the eldest heir of the Morinozuka clan, but his mother hushed him and sent him to watch Satomi – but his cousin has been in hospital for a week now and Takashi has only just been allowed to see him despite persistent begging on both parts.

"Takashi!" Mitsukuni calls. Hurrying over, Takashi thrusts Usa-chan out as a peace offering of sorts, and is rewarded with a quiet but enthusiastic squeal from Mitsukuni. "Thank you, Takashi!" He pats the bed, and Takashi crawls on, careful not to jostle any of the strange tubes poking out of his cousin's arms. "Do you want to help me finish this?" There's a half-complete jigsaw puzzle on the foldout tray normally used for meals. Nodding, Takashi sets to the task with the same determination he applies to everything, and the puzzle is complete in no time at all.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, when they've sat for five long minutes not talking about anything. Mitsukuni picks at the starched bed sheets, Usa-chan wedged firmly under one arm.

"The doctors said I have a pituitary tumour, or at least I think that's what they said."

"Pituitary?" The word is strange in Takashi's mouth, too much science for his tongue to curl around. "What is it?"

"I don't know," Mitsukuni says, and he sounds exhausted. "Some part of my brain, I think. They – they're going to operate on Tuesday." For a second, Takashi thinks Mitsukuni is crying, but before he can ask the other boy looks up, and his eyes are as bright and laughing as ever. "But don't worry, Takashi. I'll be back home before you can miss me." Usa-chan plants a kiss on the end of Takashi's nose to the sound of Mitsukuni giggling.

There are footsteps marching towards the door at a swift clip. Takashi struggles upwards, using the railings for support and unconsciously shielding Mitsukuni with his body. His cousin looks so tiny and pale; surely they won't come for more tests? Takashi hasn't been allowed to visit since the surgery, so that the doctors can have unfettered access to their patient. It's made him snappish and sick with worry. Satomi doesn't like to be alone with him for too long anymore.

"… don't care what you say, I will not let you inject him with any kind of chemical, and that's fi –"

"Yuma-san," Takashi greets, forcing his stiff body into a shallow bow and hoping she won't be offended. The only thing keeping him upright is his grip on the railings. Yuma-san walks towards the bed with a frustrated scowl pinned to her features, all her gestures sharp and jerky.

"Mori-kun, you should be with your mother," she says. Takashi nods wearily, bracing himself for the long trek to the door, but Yuma-san is suddenly at his side and helping him climb onto the bed. She urges him to lie down with firm but gentle hands.

Takashi blinks, hardly daring to breathe now that he's next to his cousin. His long body and tanned skin make Mitsukuni seem frightfully pale and small. Takashi is trembling from the strain of keeping still so that he doesn't dislodge any of the wires or disturb his cousin in any way.

"Sleep, Mori-kun. I'll be here," Yuma-san says. Her hands hold one of Mitsukuni's in a gentle cradle. Takashi wonders briefly if Mitsukuni's mother has been to visit, but dismisses the notion almost as quickly as it came; she is bed-bound and has been since Yasuchika was born. Mitsukuni has missed three of his weekly visits to her because of his stay in hospital.

There are raised voices again – sensei and a doctor, it sounds like – but the words are muffled by the closed door. Yuma-san glares in their direction any way.

"Yuma-san," Takashi ventures, seeking out the pale gleam of her eyes before he continues, "what chemical do they want to inject into Mitsukuni?" She pinches her lips tightly together, looks down at her hands.

"The chemical would help Hani-kun grow tall, but his father …" she trails off, but Takashi knows. When his own father broke his arm, he refused to take anything except traditional painkillers. Tradition is what keeps their families in the positions they hold.

Carefully, Takashi wriggles onto his side so that he is facing Mitsukuni, back pressed against the cold wall. When they were little, they matched each other inch for inch, but that stopped when the tumour grew. Takashi tries to imagine a Mitsukuni who is the same height as himself again, but he can only picture Mitsukuni as he knows him – short and skinny and looking the same at eleven as he did at eight.

"Will he be okay?" It's easier, Takashi finds, to ask these things in the grim rainy afternoon when it's hard to see faces clearly. He buries his head in the pillow, one hand daring to rest delicately on his cousin's chest.

Takashi falls asleep before he can hear Yuma-san's answer.

"I want to spar!" is the first thing Takashi hears when he slides open the door to Mitsukuni's room. His cousin has been home for a week, and on enforced bed-rest for five days of that. Despite the piles of plush dolls and mountains of toys given as presents from students of Haninozuka-sensei, he's been going stir crazy. The doctor still stood by the bed looks a little flummoxed at Mitsukuni's exuberant energy, and his stuttered warnings about over-exertion are promptly ignored as Takashi is grabbed by the wrist and pulled in the direction of the dojo.

"Mitsukuni," Takashi says before they can enter, twisting his arm free. He had another growth spurt over the last few weeks, so his arms are longer than he thinks and he nearly hits himself in the face. Mitsukuni laughs at him, eyes sparkling, and stands with hands on hips.

"Now, now, Takashi. No backing out for you. I still owe you for the last fight we had!" Takashi cocks his head to one side, studying his cousin, but everything about him seems back to normal – the barely concealed energy, twitchy hands, cherubic grin, even the curl in his hair. The smile softens slightly. "I'm fine, Takashi. Really. The doctor gave me the all clear. Now come on!" When he turns, Takashi can just make out the stitches on the back of Mitsukuni's neck, half-hidden by hair as they are.

He follows docilely into the dojo, bowing low and sliding the door shut behind him. Mitsukuni is already up and choosing weapons. Takashi blinks when a wooden kendo practice stick is thrust practically up his nose. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yes," his cousin says, rolling his eyes. Takashi nods; he respects Mitsukuni enough not to ask again.

They go slow, regardless. Mitsukuni isn't fully recovered, obviously, and Takashi is wary enough to spot the odd bouts of dizziness as they come and go. He wins easily, because kendo is his family's strongest suit and it would be a dishonour to Mitsukuni to throw the fight. Panting, his cousin beams up at him.

"Hani-kun, Mori-kun," a voice calls softly from the garden. They open the external doors to find Yama-san with a tray in her hands. She has bento boxes for the both of them, and half a chocolate cake nestled neatly in the middle. Mitsukuni's eyes grow wide. Between them, Yama-san and Takashi have spoilt Mitsukuni rotten during his stay at the hospital, bringing a cake every time they visit. He's become a little bit addicted.

They sit and eat right there in the garden, watching the koi and the sakura with absent thought. After, Yama-san piles the empty bento boxes neatly onto the tray, but Mitsukuni grabs her hand before she can stand.

"Yama-san, will you measure us?" he asks. His face is serious, though there is a smudge of icing at the corner of his mouth. She wipes it off with her thumb.

"If you like," she says. They troop solemnly back inside. Mitsukuni digs out a crayon and hands it to Yuma-san. Then he positions Takashi and stands next to him. Yuma-san draws the lines, and it surprises Takashi that he can look her in the eye when she does his. He stares awkwardly at a spot over her shoulder and wills his gangly limbs not to do anything stupid.

"You go back to school on Monday, don't you?" Yuma-san asks. Mitsukuni nods. "Are you excited?"

"A little."

"More nervous?" A second nod. Yuma-san smiles warmly.

"You've been at Ouran since you were four, Hani-kun. Nobody will treat you any differently, even on the first day at middle school." She steps back, crayon hand unconsciously still raised in the air. As one the two boys move to her side, turning to look back at the many marks on the wall. They start at a couple feet above the floor in a faded green, moving up in yellow and pink and orange. There are two purple marks at an equal level from three years previous. And then the new marks, thick red and crumbly; one rests just an inch higher than the purple, while the other stretches high up the wall.

"You're so big, Takashi!" Mitsukuni gasps, smiling. He holds his head carefully when he looks up at his bigger cousin so as not to pull the stitches. Takashi resists the urge to kneel; his knees and hips ache from last night's spring rain, and Mitsukuni would not thank him for it. Yama-san looks between them, first up at Takashi and then down at Mitsukuni.

"Do you two want to go play some more?" she asks. Shrewdly, Mitsukuni shakes his head.

"No, I think Takashi is tired. We should go for a nap."

"Honey-senpai is so cute! I just want to feed him cake all day!"

"Did someone say cake?" Takashi watches with no small amount of amusement as Mitsukuni zeroes in on his target, a collection of girls sat at his customary table. They squeal rather vociferously upon his arrival, and he is immediately offered a selection of about five different kinds of cake. Takashi wonders – not for the first time – if he and Yama-san committed a terrible crime in introducing excessive amounts of sugar to Mitsukuni's diet.

Strange, to realise he hasn't thought of their old nanny in years. He misses her dearly sometimes – usually, whenever Mitsukuni is throwing a childish fit.

"Honey-senpai, we saw you at the national judo championship. You were amazing!" Mitsukuni beams widely around a forkful of sponge and icing.

"How are you so good at martial arts? Being so small and, well, cute …" The girl trails off, unsure as to whether she's caused offence. To Takashi's surprise, Mitsukuni appears to be giving the question some thought, absently tapping his fork against his lower lip. There's icing smeared by the corner of his mouth.

"I suppose, because it's so good to run and jump and move around all the time! I don't like being stuck in one place for too long, and martial arts lets me move my body as much as I want." He catches sight of the slightly confused looks on his guests' faces and quickly slaps on a childish grin. "I love it about as much as I love cake!" They coo and ply him with more sweets, and the situation is saved.

Mitsukuni is violence and grace rolled into one. Years of gruelling training have honed him into an unstoppable machine. He will push himself to the very limit to defeat an enemy, until his hands are shaking and he can barely stand upright. This Takashi has seen first hand, after spars between father and son that left Mitsukuni panting on the floor; he never lost easily.

It's a terrible, fantastic event when Mitsukuni defeats Haninozuka-sensei for the first time. Takashi, knelt against the wall with a selection of the dojo's best students, can only watch with pride as Mitsukuni throws his father clear across the room with a strength belied by his small stature. Yes, his hair is dark with sweat and his skin is shining in the light, but there's a grin on his face that Takashi hasn't seen since … well, for a long time. Since before surgeries and stitches and scars.

"Takashi! Did you see?" Mitsukuni squeals, clambering up his cousin's back like a hyperactive monkey.

"Yes," Takashi says.

"It was so much fun! I think father was pleased, secretly." They pass into the corridor, Takashi dutifully ducking at every doorway so Mitsukuni doesn't lose his head. He is babbling far too much to keep an eye out for such trivial things as ceilings. "Do you think Yama-san has cake for us?" he muses. Takashi doesn't bother to reply; Yama-san always has cake lately, because for a martial artist Mitsukuni has a remarkable affinity for passive aggressiveness.

Mitsukuni is still chattering away when they come to his private playroom, currently occupied. Takashi places one hand unerringly over his cousin's mouth to cease the flow of words. Mitsukuni soon spots the intruder, and his gasp of surprise warms Takashi's palm. The pair stand just out of sight, watching the occupant within as he struggles to stand absolutely straight against the wall. With a felt tip pen in his hand, he scribbles blindly above his head until there's mass of brown squiggles on the wall. He turns, scrawls something beside the markings, nods once, and vanishes through the second exit.

Takashi lifts Mitsukuni off his shoulders and places him just inside the doorway. Neither moves for a long minute afterwards. Then, ever so carefully, as if afraid to summon back the boy who left, Mitsukuni approaches the measuring wall. The brown scribble is there like an old scar on porcelain skin. The characters next to it, printed in a careful hand, read, 'Yasuchika age 8'. There's a faint line between the mark for Chika, and the mark for Mitsukuni as he currently stands, twelve years old and still at the crumbly purple line made four years previously.

"Mitsukuni," Takashi says, but there's nothing else he can add. He rests a hand atop his cousin's head and hopes that communicates enough.

"Chika-chan is growing up so big and strong, ne?" The smaller boy looks up beneath Takashi's arm and grins.