Chapter Text
“Mama,” a small voice said, his tone steady and even as he patted the bed with a tiny hand. “Mama. I’m hungry.”
Scaramouche groaned lowly, lifting his head off the pillow to level a sleepy look at his son. “Ugh… Momiji? What… Didn’t your father leave you anything to eat?”
The toddler shook his head, fluffy hair falling into his red eyes. “He started but then someone came to the door and he went to work instead.”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, hefting himself into a sitting position. Kazuha getting more work was good, but did the airhead really have to leave their son unattended while he went to his workshop? Scaramouche may have only been a room away, but he was still asleep the whole time. Who knows what could have happened?
Well. Knowing Momiji, not much. The boy took after his father in temperment, and didn’t get into much in the way of trouble unless provoked into it by a more chaotic force… Like one of those awful fox children from the forest, or that dramatic little blond boy Momiji had either the poor taste or blatant misfortune to call his best friend. Momiji was a quiet boy on his own, but could be easily coerced into stupidity. If no one watched him and he wandered out of the house, he was certainly not smart enough to stop himself being kidnapped and sold into child slavery.
Scaramouche would scold Kazuha when he got back to the house. For now he lumbered out of bed with a yawn, holding his heavy stomach as he waddled to the kitchen. If Kazuha was this blase with caring for their first child, imagine how easy going he’d be with their second. Scaramouche wanted to be annoyed, knowing it would only make him look uptight looking after all of them, but if that airheadedness wasn’t something he loved about Kazuha he wouldn’t be putting up with it enough to bear another one of his children. And even on purpose , this time.
“Alright, what do you want for breakfast?”
Momiji pointed to the clay pot cooling on the counter, filled with still-steaming rice. “Dad started.”
If there was rice, knowing Kazuha… Indeed, Scaramouche quickly found and already cleaned fish waiting to be cooked. How typically Inazuman of him. Didn’t he know that here in Sumeru fish wasn’t a breakfast food? Momiji was never going to fit in with the other kids if he had fish breath for every meal.
Still, since it was already half ready, there was no point in stopping now. Scaramouche set to frying the filets, thinking that he was at least lucky Kazuha hadn’t left the stove on and set their house on fire.
Miso soup wasn’t as easy to make in Sumeru as it was in Inazuma so they tended to substitute it with a local dish, a light soup made of flower roots that paired well with the fish from the area. Momiji watched him cook with fascinated patience, following him around their small kitchen at his feet like a cat determined to trip its owner before Scaramouche shooed him away to set the table for them.
“Thank you for the meal,” Momiji politely recited, fork in hand because his tiny fingers were still too clumsy to use chopsticks.
Scaramouche watched with an affectionate gaze as his son stabbed pre-cut fish bites with his oversized fork and shoveled rice into his mouth, picking at his own less necessary breakfast with a casualness that only one who didn't need to eat for sustenance could.
When Momiji was finished eating he helped Scaramouche clean up, ever the helpful and considerate young man. Scaramouche ruffled his black fluff of hair, scooping the ever growing toddler into his arms.
“Reading lessons next, or do you need to burn off some energy with biwa practice?”
Momiji’s face scrunched up at the mention of his biwa, even though it was the instrument he himself had chosen to learn how to play when his parents had offered him lessons. Still, it was to be expected - there were very few children who enjoyed practicing instruments, but Momiji had wanted to learn how to play and Scaramouche wasn’t about to let him quit until he’d gotten good enough at it to know for sure he hated it. Once he was accomplished enough to pluck at more than the basic scales, Momiji would have more confidence, and he’d enjoy the craft more.
Scaramouche himself oversaw biwa lessons, as no one else in Sumeru was proficient enough at the instrument to teach the boy. Reading lessons, however, could be outsourced to anyone, and often Scaramouche and Kazuha used it as an excuse to drop Momiji off to learn with other children at the preschool or with friends so that they could use the time to spend alone.
But Scaramouche didn’t like relying on the preschool much, knowing he’d be enrolled in school under strict Sumeran teaching standards soon enough. Momiji was still so small, it seemed cruel to dump him off to strict lessons for hours a day when he could be playing and enjoying his innocent youth. Forty five minutes of biwa practice he barely liked and an hour of reading lessons he actively enjoyed were enough to fill a day when he needed two naps to make it to bedtime.
Biwa lessons usually went first, and today was no different. Momiji followed along with Scaramouche’s calm instructions, slow notes stringing together into scales, up and down and up and down until Momiji’s fingers could almost position themselves in the correct places on the biwa.
Reading lessons were more fun, reading along with storybooks with Momiji on his lap, pointing to the first letter of every word he read and sounding it out properly so Momiji would slowly pick up on what each letter meant. He was young enough that writing lessons were a little out of his league, but he was already picking up short two and three letter words without Scaramouche needing to prompt him, so he must be doing something right. These days, however, his lap was a little bit hard to access from under his giant pregnant belly, so the pair of them sat on the floor with Momiji tucked under his arm, pressing into his side and leaning forward to read along with the book.
Kazuha came home after Momiji’s afternoon nap, the one he took before he’d spend the rest of the day playing, running around with neighborhood children in the joined backyard their house shared with the neighbors, the intersection of three lawns all used for and by the kids on the block. Scaramouche was usually the adult chosen to watch over the tangle of children, but one of the other mothers could often be found alongside him watching over the kids, as well, and this was the case today when Scaramoche’s husband finally found his way home.
Scaramouche cast an affirming glance over at the mom watching over the kids today, who nodded in a gesture that signaled she’d watch over Momiji for him for a while he greeted his husband.
He came back into the house to be greeted with a loving kiss from Kazuha, hands gravitating automatically towards Scaramouche’s heavy belly, which he cradled with adoration.
“You left our son without breakfast,” Scaramouche accused when the kiss broke, and Kazuha at least had the decency to look abashed.
“I know, I’m sorry. We had someone at the door and I completely forgot what I was in the middle of.”
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes. “Was it some kind of emergency?”
Kazuha shook his head, looking guilty. “I should have woken you up. It was just a new client who was in a hurry to get his commission started. He has a trip to Fontaine coming up tomorrow and wanted to come home to a new piece for his collection. I had to meet with him today so I could start working on his order in time for his return.”
Scaramouche scoffed. “Some rich collector overpaying to have a genuine Kaedehara sword to hang on his wall and never get used?”
Kazuha let out a light, airy laugh. “Unfortunately, that’s precisely correct. But we negotiated the terms of our arrangement at his estate, and it turns out he’s a bit of an Inazuma fanboy. Something in his collection caught my eye, and we arranged for it to be added to the payment he’ll be offeering me for my work.”
“Oh yeah?” Scaramouche asked, curiosity winning over his annoyance. “Something shiny catch your attention?”
Kazuha’s smile was soft. A soft breeze distracted him and a brief flash of darkness obscured Scaramouche’s vision for a moment, before something was settled over his shoulders. Scaramouche blinked, hands curling into the black fabric draped over his frame, and he pulled it around himself to get a better look at what Kazuha had presented him with.
It was a kimono. A houmongi, soft black Inazuma silk with orange maple leaves patterned along the bottom and sleeves, and Scaramouche had to laugh.
“Really? Maple leaves? How possessive over me can you get, Kaedehara?” Scaramouche smirked.
Kazuha only smiled, a soft laugh breezing out of his lips. “Did you forget? We’re married, my love. Your name is Kaedehara too, now.”
A hot blush spread over Scaramoche’s face, and he realized he had somehow forgotten that fact. Kazuha pulled the kimono closed over Scaramouche’s clothing, admiring how the pattern complimented his pale skin and dark hair. He ran an affectionate hand through his hair with gentle fingers, leaning in for another kiss that Scaramouche had to lean in to return, his belly bumping into Kazuha as their lips met.
“You shouldn’t have wasted your advantage over him on a gift for me,” Scaramouche mumbled, carefully clutching the kimono draped over his shoulders. “We have another child coming, and Momiji is growing larger by the day. We’ll need more kid’s clothing than fancy kimonos I don’t even have anywhere to wear to.”
“But you’ve been working so hard lately,” Kazuha said softly. “You’re always so tired, always taking care of our family, and it makes me want to spoil you rotten.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Scaramouche’s own. “Do you like it?”
Bushing hot again, Scaramouche averted his eyes. He covered up his embarrassment by spitting out a harsh, “Idiot. It’s too much.”
Kazuha just smiled, kissing his cheek. “There’s an obi for it in the bedroom. I’m going to apologize to Momiji. You don’t need to change if you don’t feel like it, but I believe you’d look very lovely if you did, and I’d like to see you wearing my gift.”
Well. Like Scaramouche could argue with that.
His gaze followed Kazuha out into the yard, where their son ran into his father's arms, to be tossed into the air in an enthusiastic greeting.
The silk was soft under Scaramouche’s fingers.
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