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“Papa, Papa!”
Yuuji’s smile is bright when he sees Nanami appear at the threshold of his son’s pre-school classroom (Nanami refuses to refer to it as the “Butterfly Class,” no matter how much Yuuji chastises him for not saying it properly).
Yuuji comes running and once he skids to a stop in front of the salaryman, Nanami notes that he’s dirty. A smudge of paint across his cheek, dirt caked onto his blue uniform but he’s grinning widely, hugging Nanami’s leg and pulling at his pants with grubby, germy fists.
Behind him stands Fushiguro Megumi, Yuuji’s best friend, watching with a blasé expression.
Well, actually, he’s Yuuji’s self-proclaimed fiancé (he’d told his father so at dinner a month ago, kicking his pudgy legs in his highchair and saying that he and Megumi are going to get married on the playground) but Nanami refuses to acknowledge their relationship.
Gojo, Megumi’s foster dad and Nanami’s old high school friend, had teased Nanami, saying, “What’s the harm in their silly relationship? It’s cute!”
To which Nanami, adamant, had pursed his lips and said, “I haven’t given my blessing therefore their wedding and marriage is illegitimate.”
Maybe it’s because he’s a single dad who’s never cared about much before— never had a reason, a purpose, for living until Yuuji came into his life— but the idea of his young son getting married and going away leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, even if they’re only 5 and there’s no legal legitimacy behind their marriage.
Of course, Gojo had just laughed and said, “You’re so uptight Nanami!”
Nanami runs his hand through the pinkish half-curls on Yuuji’s head and leans down, “Are you ready to leave?”
Yuuji thinks for a moment before nodding firmly and informing his dad, “I ‘hafta to say goodbye to everyone first, though!”
Saying goodbye is a whole ritual, Yuuji does it every single pick-up but it’s endearing and Nanami watches patiently.
Yuuji says goodbye to the elder students first— the sisters Maki and Mai, then Toge, and even the giant stuffed panda that sits in the back of the classroom (Yuuji bows his head and says “see you tomorrow Panda-senpai”).
He gives Junpei and Nobara a long hug then, finally, plants a sloppy, damp kiss onto Megumi’s cheek before happily skipping over to his cubby to collect his things.
Nanami is a composed man. He has to be, he works in an office full of idiots and incompetent people; he’s a composed man but it takes all the willpower in the world not to drop kick a 5 year old child.
Maybe he needs to work on his protective instincts a little.
The walk home is uneventful, Yuuji clutches onto Nanami’s finger tightly as he kicks stray pebbles and chatters endlessly about his day; about how he saw a cool slug during outdoor time and the story they read at storytime.
He’s in the middle of telling Nanami about something Nobara did when he stops in his tracks, tugging on Nanami’s fingers in the direction of a bakery.
Yuuji smushes his face against the window, pressing his fingers against the tempered glass.
“Look Papa,” he says eagerly, pointing at a selection of baked goods. “They have strawberry cake!”
Don’t unnecessarily spoil your kid, Nanami remembers what all the parenting books had said. Don’t give in to them all the time.
Oh well, Nanami thinks as he slides his credit card to pay for 6 different types of sugary, fruity pastries. What do they know?
Nanami can still recall a time when coming home wasn’t so pleasant. When coming home meant a cold apartment, bland food, and a lukewarm shower before going to sleep and starting the whole day again. An endless inescapable loop.
Now, however, coming home means something much different. It wasn’t cold anymore, and he wasn’t alone.
There are toys scattered all over the living room floor because Yuuji is a messy kid. It’s sort of a miracle that Nanami hasn’t tripped over one and died yet.
Yuuji drops his schoolbag in the genkan before rushing over to the couch and picking up a plastic racecar toy, smushed in the credvice of two cushions.
“I was looking for this all day!” he shouts, excitedly, at the discovery, waving it around.
“Maybe if you cleaned up after yourself you wouldn’t lose your toys,” Nanami informs him but it’s lost on dead ears because Yuuji isn’t listening, just running the car wheels on the hardwood floor and mimicking the sound of an engine.
Nanami watches him for a few seconds, something akin to fondness (affection? love?) blossoming in his chest as Yuuji pushes the car into the leg of the couch, and screams, “Car crash!”
Shaking his head, Nanami heads into the master bedroom to change. He exchanges his suit for an apron that reads Magic in Bed, Magic in the Kitchen (it was a gag gift from Gojo, of course, but Nanami never got around to throwing it out until suddenly he had a kid who needed to be cooked for and it was the only apron he owned).
When he emerges from the bedroom, tying the apron behind his back, he sees that Yuuji has pulled out a book and is sprawled out, unceremoniously, on the plush carpet, flipping through the colorful pages.
“Yuuji,” he calls, “what do you want for dinner?”
Yuuji looks up from the book to grin at his father with wide eyes.
“Hot pot? With the meatballs?” he asks, excitedly and Nanami nods because he always gives in. It’s pretty easy to prepare and half an hour later, they’re sitting at the table with a simmering pot of broth bubbling between them.
“It’s hot,” Nanami tells Yuuji as he ladles soup and tofu into a kiddie bowl but that doesn’t stop Yuuji, who promptly burns his tongue and cries out in pain.
Nanami sighs, swirling his chopsticks around the pot.
“I told you,” he chastises, but it’s long forgotten by Yuuji, who’s already eagerly sinking his mouth into a piece of sliced beef, humming happily to himself.
Halfway through dinner, Yuuji slams down his chopsticks suddenly, eyes widening like he just remembered something world-shattering.
“Ah!”
“What is it?” Nanami asks but before he can get an answer, Yuuji hops down from his highchair and runs towards the genkan, feet thudding against the floor loudly.
Curious, Nanami gets up as well, following him to see Yuuji rifling, hurriedly, through his schoolbag.
Absentmindedly, as he watches his son pull out rocks and dead leaves and crumpled up drawings, Nanami notes that they should probably clean out Yuuji’s bag soon.
“Found it!” cries Yuuji, breaking Nanami out of his thoughts, as he pulls out a piece of paper folded, notably, much neater than the rest of his paper.
“We had art class today,” Yuuji explains, holding out the drawing to Nanami, “an’ Sensei said we had’ta draw someone we love.”
It better not be a drawing of Megumi, thinks Nanami as he unfolds the paper, careful not to rip it.
No, it wasn’t Megumi.
Instead, what stared up at Nanami, was a crudely-drawn stick figure of himself, complete with a messy scribble of yellow for his hair, round glasses, and a blue tie, holding a sword in one hand and Yuuji’s hand in the other.
A poor rendition of their apartment complex is in the background with the playground Nanami takes him to on weekends beside it. There are butterflies and hearts and all kinds of bread, everything that made their mundane life special.
“Look,” Yuuji points at the artwork, jabbing his finger at the paper, “you’re holding a sword ‘cuz you’re a hero and you’re gonna save everyone from the bad guys. Right, Papa?”
Then, when Nanami is silent, he asks, “Do you like it?”
His heart tightens in his chest, swelling against his ribcage.
“Someone call the Lourve,” Nanami responds, plainly. Yuuji looks up at him, confused. “We finally found a painting to rival the Mona Lisa, herself. This drawing will be in art museums all over the world, we have to patent it quickly before there are copycats.”
A giggle escapes Yuuji’s lips.
“Papa, you’re so silly!” he laughs. Nanami, in spite of himself, grins and sets the drawing down in favor of picking Yuuji up, swinging him in his arms just a little.
Yuuji nestles his head into the crook of Nanami’s neck, his pink hair tickling the side of the elder man’s face.
“Love you, Papa,” he whispers and Nanami’s mouth feels, suddenly, incredibly dry.
This is what his purpose is.
This is what home is, Nanami realizes; it’s not a cold, stale meaningless apartment. It’s the scent of chicken stock broth wafting through a dimly lit house, toys scattered around that could kill you if you stepped on them. It’s drawings hanging on the fridge with magnets and pink laced aprons that are so idiotic and stupid.
Home, for Nanami, is Yuuji and he wouldn’t have it any other way.