"Oto-san."

Ikuto stared at the person that was his reflection.

Dark blue hair. Dark blue eyes. Black clothes hanging off of a tall, skinny frame.

Violin case slung over the shoulder.

The hustle and bustle of the busy Paris streets was the only indicator that time had not paused in real life as it had for this family of two, immobile on the sidewalk.

Ikuto had not seen this coming.

It had been a month since his arrival in France, one month since his departure from Japan, his extended "family", and Amu. A month of solitude, as Yoru's egg had disappeared. One month alone with his dark, dark thoughts.

And here was his father standing in front of him. 12 years later, his frantic searching come to an end by simply stepping out onto the street.

He was frozen; several passerby turned to stare at the identical men facing off, but hurriedly continued on when nothing happened. How long he stood there, he could not know.

He stared into his father's face, trying madly to decipher any scrap of emotion and glean even a tiny shred of information without saying anything more. He was desperate, oh so desperate, to learn something; about then, why his father had left then had not returned if he was obviously free, and about now, what did his father think of this identical picture staring him down in the middle of a Paris road?

Ikuto did not know what to do. Without Amu, his strength, or Yoru, his push, he could not continue. All thoughts of speaking slowly left his mind, leaving a hazy fog of father, father, father swirling in its midst.

Not surprisingly, Aruto pushed things forward after a pregnant pause.

"Ikuto."

He could not move. Emotions inhibited. He made no sign of recognition to the man he had just addressed as father.

Aruto smiled sadly, and turned back in the direction he had come.

And stopped. And turned back.

And strode towards his son. And stopped again.

It was only the shock of possibly losing him again that prompted Ikuto into motion.

"Oto-san."

When Aruto smiled again, slightly warmer this time (although with pain-filled eyes), Ikuto couldn't deny himself any longer. He propelled himself forwards, tripping into Aruto's arms.

"Oto-san, Oto-san, Oto-san." He sobbed.

Aruto stroked his back, in tears himself.

"Ikuto."

Somewhere in Japan, in the middle of her first period lesson, Amu started from her half-asleep stupor, hands going to the Humpty Lock. She could have sworn she felt Ikuto's heat lurch happily for a moment; but he wasn't here, was he? Last she remembered, he had kissed her (on the chin this time) before departing to France a month ago. And what nonsense, she shouldn't be able to feel his emotions anyways. Shrugging it off, she turned back to the board and internally groaned when the teacher began erasing notes she had yet to take down.

But deep down inside, she couldn't quell the newfound elation she assumed had to do with Ikuto. I wonder if, this time, he's found his father…