[Reborn fic] 2 for Yamamoto: Mama's Game, Player Substitution | gen
ah, m.e., you're pre-empting canon again :P playing with yamamoto's home life, this time.
it's the mangaka's fault for not saying where the heck yamamoto's mother is.
PS: GIP for all reborn fics. guess who my favorite character is!
Mama's Game
Takeshi's mother knew a hundred thousand games. While his father was away at work, like the dutiful salaryman that he was at the time, she did the housework like the dutiful housewife she was at the time, without regret and without complaint.
This was because she enjoyed housework. She made a game out of every little task. How could wiping windows clean be tedious when she kept track of how many small squares of glass she could cover in a minute, and how could cleaning the bathroom be hard when she challenged herself to be done by the time her favorite daytime drama came on?
She enjoyed herself. She enjoyed herself even more with her firstborn son. Though he was only a toddler he showed an exceptional aptitude for having fun. He looked forward to their little games, and he eagerly anticipated her reaction, no matter who won.
Can you finish your vegetables even faster than I can, Takeshi? Let's see, shall we? Ready? Set? GO! He won, without knowing she let him win, and then she would make a big fuss, laughing and clapping her hands in celebration of such a small victory. In the meantime, his bone-tired office worker father feebly grumbled that he couldn't hear the television over their racket.
I finished putting away the toys on my side of the room faster than you did, Takeshi! Come over here, you owe me a kiss!
Oh, you won again! You're so clever! Your reward is... an extra plate of dessert for tonight. How would my little champion like that?
Takeshi... someday you're going to be a great person, she told him, holding him close, just before he had grown too big or too old to seat in her lap and cuddle. I just want to be there to see it, Takeshi. That's all Mama wants.
"Look, Mama," he said, tugging at her sleeve, "I can see our house from here!" He was five years old and bored and even if she looked a bit tired, a bit pale, he couldn't have noticed. "Bet I can get there faster than you can! Bet I can, mama!"
She forced out a smile and a slight chuckle. Shall we have a race, Takeshi? I warn you, Mama's going to win! He laughed because he liked that his mother liked to brag, and he shrieked "ReadysetGO!"
Then he ran, without looking back and without caring if she started running or not.
When he touched the pillar of the gate in front of their house he laughed, and looked back, and saw that she wasn't there. "Mama?" he called without much concern, thinking she was probably hiding, playing another game with him.
But when he found her, she was where he left her, leaning back against the stone fence, all the color drained from her face, her breathing slow and very faint.
Not hiding, or running, or laughing and clapping her hands because he got home first.
On the white bed, in the white room he had come to hate, she told him not to be afraid - she was only playing a game. She was trying her best to win.
Takeshi, too, had to be brave, because even if she looked like this, it was all just a game.
Takeshi was five and not too young to know that in most games, there is something to win against. But sometimes, just to fill the empty spaces, one will only have oneself to try and beat, and that's fun too.
But his Mama wasn't fighting to beat herself now. He imagined his Mama fighting something he couldn't see, something inside of her - holding her back, making her ill. And he imagined it was something big and wicked, like a creature from his nightmares, only it wasn't too big or too wicked to defeat.
When Mama wins - and that will be soon - Mama will come home, she promised him, smiling. But just in case, just in case... don't forget Mama, okay?
One day, after day school, he came back to the white room and found a white sheet on top of his mother's sleeping face. She wouldn't answer when he tugged off the white sheet and tried to wake her up, and he got angry when his father led him away.
He asked his father once, over dinner, if Mama was ever coming back. His father was even more silent than Takeshi had gotten used to, so he repeated the question. There was still no answer, so Takeshi asked "Does that mean Mama lost?"
His father looked at Takeshi as if he wanted to strike him for even asking.
But instead, his father burst into tears.
***
Player Substitution
When Yamamoto's mother died, it was as if his father turned into something else. He started laughing more. Whenever anyone looked at him, he suddenly brightened up, like he was embarrassed to be caught without a smile on his face.
He no longer woke up before dawn to go to work in an office, when it used to be so important to him - so important, in fact, that he used to yell at his wife and son if they got in his way.
Yamamoto's earliest memory of his father was one cold morning when he was barely two years old; he was an awkward infant sitting at the cold doorway to their little house, somehow determined to give his father a hug before he could leave him and his mother in each other's company for the rest of the day.
While he waited, amusing himself with the pebbles within reach, his father's shadow loomed over him. The elder Yamamoto looked down at his son with cold curious eyes, like he was wondering how he could have gotten there. Could he have crawled out? Was he left out of the crib? Was he able to climb down from his crib all on his own?
Yamamoto remembered raising his arms up to the shadow. And then the shadow vanished. He was left alone at the doorstep, arms outstretched. He didn't even remember seeing the shadow leave.
Now, as he was getting ready to attend grade school for the first time, his father was there - not a shadow this time, not something cold and gigantic and in a hurry. His father was a solid, small, living and almost uncomfortable presence, fussing over his hair, his clothes, his packed lunch, and how much pocket money he had.
Are you nervous, Takeshi? Are you scared? Don't be, Papa's closing up shop so he can be with you all day. Nothing bad's going to happen to you. Just remember - if anything happens, just call and I'll come, okay?
Yamamoto always had a hard time responding, even with reassuring words that couldn't help but come with a touch of impatience. Ever since he was born, his father had ignored his presence. Why should anything change?
His father had never spoken to Yamamoto about his own childhood, or indeed mentioned anything interesting about himself. After his mother passed away, and he finally started talking, everything that left his lips was related to his son. Are you hungry? How was school today? Did you make any friends? Do you have enough money? Just work hard at it, Takeshi - you're going to be a great baseball player someday.
Would you like to play a game, Takeshi? Come on, just one. I just want to see if you can clear these plates faster than I can. I bet I - oh, you need to do your homework? All right, maybe tomorrow? Maybe we can play catch sometime, we haven't done that in a while...
Sometimes it chilled him to hear his father trying hard to sound like someone else, someone he'd loved.
And he wondered where his real father had gone.
it's the mangaka's fault for not saying where the heck yamamoto's mother is.
PS: GIP for all reborn fics. guess who my favorite character is!
Mama's Game
Takeshi's mother knew a hundred thousand games. While his father was away at work, like the dutiful salaryman that he was at the time, she did the housework like the dutiful housewife she was at the time, without regret and without complaint.
This was because she enjoyed housework. She made a game out of every little task. How could wiping windows clean be tedious when she kept track of how many small squares of glass she could cover in a minute, and how could cleaning the bathroom be hard when she challenged herself to be done by the time her favorite daytime drama came on?
She enjoyed herself. She enjoyed herself even more with her firstborn son. Though he was only a toddler he showed an exceptional aptitude for having fun. He looked forward to their little games, and he eagerly anticipated her reaction, no matter who won.
Can you finish your vegetables even faster than I can, Takeshi? Let's see, shall we? Ready? Set? GO! He won, without knowing she let him win, and then she would make a big fuss, laughing and clapping her hands in celebration of such a small victory. In the meantime, his bone-tired office worker father feebly grumbled that he couldn't hear the television over their racket.
I finished putting away the toys on my side of the room faster than you did, Takeshi! Come over here, you owe me a kiss!
Oh, you won again! You're so clever! Your reward is... an extra plate of dessert for tonight. How would my little champion like that?
Takeshi... someday you're going to be a great person, she told him, holding him close, just before he had grown too big or too old to seat in her lap and cuddle. I just want to be there to see it, Takeshi. That's all Mama wants.
"Look, Mama," he said, tugging at her sleeve, "I can see our house from here!" He was five years old and bored and even if she looked a bit tired, a bit pale, he couldn't have noticed. "Bet I can get there faster than you can! Bet I can, mama!"
She forced out a smile and a slight chuckle. Shall we have a race, Takeshi? I warn you, Mama's going to win! He laughed because he liked that his mother liked to brag, and he shrieked "ReadysetGO!"
Then he ran, without looking back and without caring if she started running or not.
When he touched the pillar of the gate in front of their house he laughed, and looked back, and saw that she wasn't there. "Mama?" he called without much concern, thinking she was probably hiding, playing another game with him.
But when he found her, she was where he left her, leaning back against the stone fence, all the color drained from her face, her breathing slow and very faint.
Not hiding, or running, or laughing and clapping her hands because he got home first.
On the white bed, in the white room he had come to hate, she told him not to be afraid - she was only playing a game. She was trying her best to win.
Takeshi, too, had to be brave, because even if she looked like this, it was all just a game.
Takeshi was five and not too young to know that in most games, there is something to win against. But sometimes, just to fill the empty spaces, one will only have oneself to try and beat, and that's fun too.
But his Mama wasn't fighting to beat herself now. He imagined his Mama fighting something he couldn't see, something inside of her - holding her back, making her ill. And he imagined it was something big and wicked, like a creature from his nightmares, only it wasn't too big or too wicked to defeat.
When Mama wins - and that will be soon - Mama will come home, she promised him, smiling. But just in case, just in case... don't forget Mama, okay?
One day, after day school, he came back to the white room and found a white sheet on top of his mother's sleeping face. She wouldn't answer when he tugged off the white sheet and tried to wake her up, and he got angry when his father led him away.
He asked his father once, over dinner, if Mama was ever coming back. His father was even more silent than Takeshi had gotten used to, so he repeated the question. There was still no answer, so Takeshi asked "Does that mean Mama lost?"
His father looked at Takeshi as if he wanted to strike him for even asking.
But instead, his father burst into tears.
***
Player Substitution
When Yamamoto's mother died, it was as if his father turned into something else. He started laughing more. Whenever anyone looked at him, he suddenly brightened up, like he was embarrassed to be caught without a smile on his face.
He no longer woke up before dawn to go to work in an office, when it used to be so important to him - so important, in fact, that he used to yell at his wife and son if they got in his way.
Yamamoto's earliest memory of his father was one cold morning when he was barely two years old; he was an awkward infant sitting at the cold doorway to their little house, somehow determined to give his father a hug before he could leave him and his mother in each other's company for the rest of the day.
While he waited, amusing himself with the pebbles within reach, his father's shadow loomed over him. The elder Yamamoto looked down at his son with cold curious eyes, like he was wondering how he could have gotten there. Could he have crawled out? Was he left out of the crib? Was he able to climb down from his crib all on his own?
Yamamoto remembered raising his arms up to the shadow. And then the shadow vanished. He was left alone at the doorstep, arms outstretched. He didn't even remember seeing the shadow leave.
Now, as he was getting ready to attend grade school for the first time, his father was there - not a shadow this time, not something cold and gigantic and in a hurry. His father was a solid, small, living and almost uncomfortable presence, fussing over his hair, his clothes, his packed lunch, and how much pocket money he had.
Are you nervous, Takeshi? Are you scared? Don't be, Papa's closing up shop so he can be with you all day. Nothing bad's going to happen to you. Just remember - if anything happens, just call and I'll come, okay?
Yamamoto always had a hard time responding, even with reassuring words that couldn't help but come with a touch of impatience. Ever since he was born, his father had ignored his presence. Why should anything change?
His father had never spoken to Yamamoto about his own childhood, or indeed mentioned anything interesting about himself. After his mother passed away, and he finally started talking, everything that left his lips was related to his son. Are you hungry? How was school today? Did you make any friends? Do you have enough money? Just work hard at it, Takeshi - you're going to be a great baseball player someday.
Would you like to play a game, Takeshi? Come on, just one. I just want to see if you can clear these plates faster than I can. I bet I - oh, you need to do your homework? All right, maybe tomorrow? Maybe we can play catch sometime, we haven't done that in a while...
Sometimes it chilled him to hear his father trying hard to sound like someone else, someone he'd loved.
And he wondered where his real father had gone.