Next that occurs is a blur.
Someone, his father apparently, shows up, frantic and concerned and so very panicked-- he wraps him in a hug, apologies spilling from his throat so consistently the tears muffle his voice.
He feels loved, and the embrace is warm and gentle and so tight and comfortable-- he leans in, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
His new father smells like fresh grapes and a sizzle of burnt coal. The bigger arms vibrate with heat, and he can't help but lean in, feeling warm again.
He realizes his fingers are freezing, but his father lifts him like a baby and they walk home. He whispers promises into the boy's ears, but the boy doesn't understand them, not knowing the language well enough. But he is held so homely and so tenderly-- so he keeps quiet and simply enjoys the ride.
He settles into his new home relatively easily.
His name is Hiroto, of the Aisaka household.
Aisaka, an indigo hill. Hiroto, to spread wide and fly.
His mother had recently passed, so his father, who has lost his stable job, now works tirelessly to provide for their livelihood.
Up until that day, he had sunk into a depressive state-- Hiroto had retreated into his room and became a shut-in with the care of his neighbour, a friendly teenage girl. Those were their living conditions for a whole year, or perhaps longer, because Hiroto's hair is now long to his shoulders from some motherly remembrance coping mechanism.
What surprises him most is the colour of his hair. His father had common black hair, but Hiroshi had a shock of indigo locks, cascading in smooth waves before curling up at the edges. His eyes were in the same dark purple-blue hue, and he knows this isn't normal.
As he began to rebuild his relationship with his father and learn more of the language, Hiroto learns more about the world-- this world he had reincarnated into.
And he begins to take notes.
"So this world is mostly the same," he mutters to himself, filling in his journal with the information he has begun to learn. He tries to write in Japanese, but it wasn't working well. He still sucks at it too much, so he scribbles in English.
"No tameable magic beasts that spew fire or thunder," he writes that down, "no magic circles and elite academies for the talented, no flying cars and endless caves or towering dungeons. No level up notification screens either."
Maybe he was hoping for too much. Maybe he was watching too many TV shows, because somehow, he was expecting to end up in some crazy fantasy world. Turns out it's literally normal.
But just to make sure, "we use the same year system and calendars and horoscopes and clock cycles. Just normal modern day Japan, except some of the more recent sportsmen I know apparently don't exist. But Shaq and Tiger Woods exists, so maybe this history redact isn't too far away..."
Well, that certainly helps his case. He didn't need to learn or study things he'd never known existed.
"I don't exist either," he had borrowed his father's phone and searched it up. The news of a famous basketball player that became a quadriplegic was wiped clean from the slates and entirely gone from sensationalized media, never having existed.
Somehow, that's a relief.
Throwing down his pen with a sigh, he pulls a grin on his features and in a determined way, he closes his fingers into a fist and smiles.
He can't help but feel so excited by it all. By this aspect of a new, free, life. Starting over again with premature limbs, untrained muscles, inflexible joints.
Standing up from his desk, he pulls the most of his hair away from him, holds it as a ponytail within his fist, and brings a blade through the thick indigo locks.
His father runs in screaming bloody murder, but he's never felt this liberated in his life.
-
Aisaka Jousuke has never felt this much regret in his life.
Human in his own right, he has had his fair share of major fuck-ups in life. Letting his nine-year-old son live unsupervised was one. Not approaching him until he's physically suicidal is another. Allowing him to go to his room at seven o'clock was apparently one, too.
Now he seats his little Hiroto on a bathroom stool.
Armed with a pair of scissors, he tries his utmost best to fix this crime of a haircut his son has impulsively brought upon himself. Why the heck is there a blade in his room? Ah, right, because your genius ass left him alone for ten months.
Sometimes, Jousuke wonders if this kid is worth the headache. But when Hiroto giggles at every little mistake his clumsy hands make, the smile on his face so wide and adorable-- Jousuke knows that he's worth anything, always.
Running his fingers through the unique indigo locks, Jousuke dumps a bucketfull of water over his head, careful not to get Hiroto's clothes wet, and drapes a dry towel over the boy's shoulders.
"There, I'm done," he sighs defeatedly, "much lighter now?"
"Yeap!" Hiroto bounces right up, stepping over the stool to give his father a bright, obnoxiously proud grin. "Thanks, dad!"
His hair is short. So short, it's barely around his ears now, curled at the edges but framing his pale face tenderly.
Maybe , Jousuke thinks, this is a mark of a great change .
For both him and Hiroto.
-
"Are you really sure you're fine alone? I can--"
"I'm fine, dad, just go to work already."
Jousuke does not trust his son to take care of himself. He's guilty enough knowing he has to leave Hiroto alone at home, after everything that's happened.
Hiroto sits on the couch, his little feet bandaged for all the scrapes he'd suffered. Swinging his legs over the edge, he kicks out playfully and grins assuringly.
His son tells him one more time that he's fine .
Jousuke promises to come back as early as he can, just for good measure.
As he leaves the house, he can't shake off the feeling that something is off . Hiroto's recovered much too quickly for a boy that's apparently been a depressed shut in for nearly a year.
He's acting like a normal kid now, and although Jousuke is relieved, it doesn't feel real.
Ten months ago, his son hated him enough to shut him out of his life. His son despised him enough to yell it in his face and refuse to eat any meals.
When Jousuke decided to try and make it up to the kid, he was prepared for struggle. For rejection. For himself to be hurt further, because of how he's hurt his own kid.
But none of that happened.
Hiroto melded back in with him and began livelihood with Jousuke anew, as if the whole incident had never occurred.
Maybe if Hiroto was an adult, Jousuke would have ignored it as a happy sign of maturity. Of a mutually bleeding wound they would let coagulate over time.
But Hiroto was a child .
Jousuke crouches down, and a part of him wonders if that's even his Hiroto anymore.