The first time Kitaro calls him “mom” is innocent enough. Harmless. It’s actually adorable, if he had to be honest. The memory always brings him warm nostalgia, the kind that tints any hardship or doubt and replaces it with something much sweeter, sugary souvenirs of the past. Kitaro never met his mother, and if he, despite everything, filled that role in some odd, odd way, then… well, that’s simply the way of it. After all, the euphoria of hearing Kitaro’s first word is more than enough to overshadow the initial confusion, and being so young, Mizuki hadn’t cared to correct it. He reveled in it, couldn’t stop thinking about it, talked the ear off of every willing (and unwilling) coworker that his precious son talked for the very first time.
Rather than a slip of the tongue, or the infant mimicking something he heard on their tiny TV, the title persisted through Kitaro’s childhood. Regardless of how he believed he didn’t really fit the image of a mother, he answered to it, for what else could he do? Ignore or, god forbid, scold his only son for something so miniscule?
By the time Kitaro is eight, though, is when Mizuki starts to wonder.
“I’m going to school,” Kitaro announces, shuffling his geta on. It seemed like only yesterday that he was crawling still (though Mizuki was glad those days were over, since Kitaro had a habit of sticking to the ceiling). But here he was, in his third year of school, passing his previous grades with flying colors. Even if Kitaro neglected to mention any school friends, he seemed to enjoy going, even if, rather than the lessons, “watching other humans” was his favorite part of each day. Mizuki had always told Kitaro to pursue his curiosity, so he supposed that was on him.
While Mizuki had never imagined himself with children, nevertheless a yokai child of all things, he had grown fond of the routine parenting brought him. Work was fine enough, but coming home to an empty home for the rest of his life wasn’t exactly what most men dreamed of. It certainly wasn’t his idea of a future, though Mizuki had resigned himself to it after the war. Seeking the comfort of men was fine then, expected even, but when they returned home, they were meant to keep that part of themselves tucked away, out of sight, out of mind.
“Alright, Kitaro. Be safe. I’ll see you after work.” Before Kitaro can rush out, Mizuki brushes a hand through his son’s hair, a fruitless attempt at combing his unruly mane. Kitaro dodges Mizuki’s other hand by ducking, and with a shake of his head, Kitaro’s hair fluffs right back up, strands going wherever they pleased (and Mizuki swears it managed to grow even taller).
“Okay,” Kitaro pushes open the shoji, spares Mizuki a long glance before he leaves. His smile is faint, subdued, but Mizuki always finds it; finds it in the crinkle of his eyes, in the white of an untucked tooth, in the puffed up cheeks that Mizuki has to maul the urge to squish. “Bye, mom.”
Mizuki is all too used to it, doesn’t even bat an eye, simply happy enough that Kitaro even regards him as family. He smiles, waves, and rolls up his sleeves, ready to conquer a few morning chores before he heads off to work.
But, really. What was with that?
“It’s not like there’s a problem with it,” Medama yawns, scratching his back. Medama’s form came and went like the breeze, not that Mizuki pretended to understand the logistics of it. Mizuki found that Medama had much more of an ego when it came to being in his bigger body. It must come from being that tall.
“Well, no,” Mizuki agrees. He never thought it was a problem, just… baffling. Dishes from breakfast pass in and out of his hand as he goes through the motions of washing and drying, not even having to look to do so. “I just thought it was strange.”
“Strange?” Medama air quotes, which earns him a very slow eye roll, “You should be used to strange by now. Besides,” he sits up, circles his head around once, twice, with a disturbingly loud crack on the second go round, then looks him up and down. And he has that weird look on his face, a telltale sign that he’s going to say something annoying or stupid. “...between the two of us, you fit it more than I do, no?”
The plate in Mizuki’s hand nearly drops to the floor.
It must be a joke, a way to get under his skin, but something about the way he says it alights every endorphin in his entire body. It feels… good, relieving almost, as if he’s always wanted to hear that.
“I don’t–” He clears his throat, tries to regain his composure, force the blush off his cheeks. He fails. He shakes his head and busies himself with washing an already spotless bowl, hands working so hard against the glass that the color might as well come off onto the rag. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Hmm,” Medama sees right through him, the smug bastard, and he lazily moves onto his feet to meet the other man in the kitchen, circling him like a predator to its prey, before planting himself right behind Mizuki. He’s no doubt staring him down, though Mizuki doesn’t have the heart to turn around and find out. “You’re smaller than me, and you end up doing most of the chores around the house, don’t you?”
“How traditional of you.” Though he can’t exactly deny that. Large hands meet a thin waist, fingers drumming against Mizuki’s belt. He should shove him off; he can think of a thousand reasons why, but he doesn’t.
“Plus,” Medama leans down, talks right against his ear, and Mizuki tries, and fails, not to shiver at the hot breath on his skin. “You’re cuter, too. It suits you.”
That he can deny, and he parts his lips to do just that, but Medama claims his mouth before he can even think of what to say. The yokai always liked to flaunt his tongue, gave Mizuki a good scare the first time he saw and felt it. Medama licks into his mouth, tastes every inch, has Mizuki squirming against the countertop. Tears rise to the corner of his eyes as it hits the back of his throat, impossibly long and heavy and hot. It’s all he can feel, and he wetly gags around it, eyes rolling to the back of his skull in dazed pleasure. Mizuki swears Medama forces it deeper before granting him mercy and pulling away, though not without a loving lick to clean Mizuki of his own spittle.
“See?” Medama’s thumb presses down on Mizuki’s bottom lip. Drool dribbles down his chin, and Mizuki’s sure he’s a sight, flushed-faced and foggy-eyed. “Much, much cuter.”
Medama doubles over at the elbow aimed directly at his left rib.
“Ow–”
“Now that you’re here,” Mizuki wipes his mouth with the side of his hand, tilts his head towards the pile of dry dishes. “Put those away. I’m going to work.”
Medama sighs, pouts, and does as he’s told.
“I’m home.”
Two red eyes look his way, pupils dilating at the sight of Mizuki finally back. Mizuki can’t help but chuckle; it was oddly adorable how cat-like they could be, and they really were cut from the same cloth. If it weren’t for Kitaro’s brown hair, they would look nearly identical. He holds up a bag, lightly swaying it back and forth.Their heads follow, and their noses twitch at the smell of fresh takeout. While it didn’t hold a candle to live rats, it was a close substitute, apparently.
The two yokai hurry to set up the table, stomachs rumbling in unison. Kitaro tries his best to set plates against the tabletop, but he’s a couple inches short, even when standing on the tips of his toes. Medama helps him up, taking the boy into his hands and raising him high enough to complete the task, and this, he realizes, is truly the life he wants to live. He clears his throat, feeling sentimentality on the tip of his tongue, but, instead, he meets his family at the dinner table and silently passes them their respective take out box.
“How was school, Kitaro?” Mizuki prompts, batting Medama’s hand away with the end of his chopsticks to keep him from stealing his soy sauce. Mizuki learned his lesson after watching Medama drink them straight from the packets.
“Mm,” Kitaro hums through a mouthful of noodles. “Good. Was work good, mom?”
“Same as ever,” Mizuki shrugs, and it’s a few chews later until he realizes he has an opening. He swallows, then puts his chopsticks down, crosses his arms.
“Kitaro.” That catches the boy’s attention, and his eye widens ever so slightly, as if he’s been caught. Mizuki is certain that Kitaro’s done something worth looking guilty for, but Mizuki’s learned that ignorance truly is bliss, especially with what his son gets up to. Medama is usually there to accompany the boy on whatever yokai adventure that ends up their way, but that doesn’t keep him from worrying. Regardless, that’s a conversation for another day. “You do realize I’m a man, right?”
Kitaro nods and squints, uncertain, as if this is some sort of trap.
“You keep calling me your mom, and while I don’t… really mind it…” Mizuki stumbles, trying to figure out what he exactly wants out of this. “It’s perfectly normal to have two fathers.”
Kitaro tilts his head, staring at Mizuki as if he sprouted two heads. “I know.”
Good, now that settles things–
“But I’ve never thought of you as my father.”
Huh.
Medama’s laugh cuts through his thoughts, and he’s trying to hide his wide grin behind the sleeve of his yukata. Mizuki looks down at his plate, and he’s managed to steal every packet of soy sauce, drained them all through small, fang-shaped holes through the plastic.
“You–” Mizuki starts, then realizes that he’s still supposed to be talking to their son, and he sighs, shakes his head, and tries to ignore Medama’s deranged cackling. “Listen, Kitaro… I’m not angry with you, just… confused. You can call me your dad, too.”
Kitaro looks away, frown pulling his thin, pale lips down. It’s rare to see the boy look so vulnerable, pitiful, like a wounded animal, ready to flee. “Do you not want to be my mother?”
Mizuki is practically back on the field with how fast and painful the question spears through his chest. It’s a bullet that pierces right through his heart, and the sharp ache starts there, spreads to his fingertips, cold and clammy guilt.
“No!” He’s louder than he means to be, and he nearly knocks over a glass as his hands desperately plant themselves onto the table. “No, Kitaro, that’s not… that’s not it at all. I just…”
“Kitaro,” Medama cuts in, dark, inky stains at the corners of his mouth. “Mizuki is only looking out for you. It might cause us trouble if someone overhears you talking about him that way. We aren’t supposed to attract too much attention, you know.”
Kitaro doesn’t seem satisfied with that, but he doesn’t argue.
That should be the end of that, but… Mizuki feels uneasy, like he made a mistake.
Everyone knows, he thinks. If they haven’t seen Kitaro, then they’ve seen Medama, who hovers and follows Mizuki around like a dog. A big, clingy samoyed, if he had to be specific, or maybe a wolf, with the yokai’s tendency to bite. To the grocery store, to Kitaro’s school festivals, and, on the rare occasion, Medama will greet Mizuki at work, bring him some awful, awful “bento” lunch, or an umbrella he’s forgotten, all while he’s neglected to shield himself from the rain, and now he’s a soaking wet mess that Mizuki has to usher inside and scold. It’s painfully obvious, and Mizuki has heard the whispers, what a surprise, what a shame, what a waste.
Despite it all, he’s happier than he’d be in years. It was wonderful to not be held down by expectations, to be with a man he loved, to raise a child to be kind and strong and different. Things aren’t perfect, but they’re easier. He hasn’t let stares or gossip ruin what he has, and he won’t let it start now.
“It’s… alright.” Mizuki assures, reaches a hand forward to rest on top of Kitaro’s head. “Like I said, I don’t mind it. If that’s how you see me, then… It’s fine. Mothers are tough.”
The boy flushes, bright red on his sickly pale cheeks, and Mizuki thinks he’s moments from shoving his hand off out of embarrassment, ever shy to affection, until he feels a soft weight on his chest. Kitaro wraps his tiny arms around Mizuki’s midriff and lays his head against his shoulder, eye closed, like a content kitten. Mizuki chuckles softly and pulls Kitaro even closer, gently stroking his hair. Something larger and colder presses against his back, and he turns to look over his shoulder, finding Medama staring intently back. What once frightened him to the core is now a welcome sight, and he smiles, leaning into him. Medama’s made himself comfortable behind him, and he stretches his arms, pulls the two smaller ones onto his lap. Frigid lips press against Mizuki’s temple, trail down to his cheek, then to his lips, and Mizuki’s body temperature kicks in, ramps up to warm the two bodies nestled into him.
The food on the table is quickly forgotten, both the yokai forgoing their meal to promptly fall asleep against him. It’ll be a pain to get both of them to bed, heavy sleepers as they are (and in Medama’s case, just simply heavy). Plus, he’ll need to put the food away, clean up the kitchen, but… just this once, he’ll follow their lead and let sleep take him.
What he has is far from normal, but it suits him just fine.
