dancing on bones (our souls of iolites and emeralds)

Chapter 4

No one shall be subjected to arbitrary interference with his privacy, family, home, or correspondence, nor to attacks upon his honour and reputation. Everyone has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.

— Article 12 of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Rights

//

Pretending to be a child, let alone an infant was boring. Ridiculously so.

That wasn't to say that his new parents weren't interesting. Rather, they were quite the contrary and had provided him with an abundance of context and knowledge alongside general entertainment. Yet still, one could only go so long without any proper stimulation.

He spent the majority of his time sleeping, a gift considering he had virtually no sleep schedule before. Kusuo's internal clock had been practically nonexistent, and while he didn't technically need much sleep to function, he still got tired.

His brother lay next to him, cooing at the softly glowing lights and trinkets floating around their bed. When Harry wasn't crying, or feeding, he also slept. In fact, Harry slept more than he did, which was odd, but fine. His brother was a happy, healthy child. He would be fine.

(not for long, an ugly voice in the recluses of his mind hisses, harry won't be safe for long)

Harry was a warm weight in his arms. It was easy to let his thoughts wander.

Whoever said that babies grew up quickly, had either (1) been lying, or had (2) never been an adult trapped inside a baby's body. Kusuo was inclined to believe the former, despite the more rational side of his brain saying otherwise, purely out of spite.

Harry's thoughts were a comforting sort of static, too underdeveloped to be fully formed, something to focus on when James and Lily got too loud. Kusuo, despite himself, cared for this tiny, useless, little thing.

(he would not say love. that was more attachment than he was willing to admit)

(if he loved this child, that meant that this was all real and that kusuo would never go home)

Life goes on, and they fall into a comfortable routine of sorts, an organised chaos. Though his parents look at him with worried eyes from time to time because Kusuo does not cry. He would not lower himself to that level.

(he wants to though. wants to scream and sob and rage until the whole world —until the deity that sent him here— feels his anger.)

Besides, he is too tired to cry.

He is too tired to dream.

He falls into a dreamless slumber.

//

Saiki Kusuo did not die at twenty-eight.

(Or maybe he did, because Felix Oleander Potter would never be Saiki Kusuo again.)

It was like waking up after a deep sleep. Pieces of his Old Life would come to him at random points, intersecting with his life as Felix. He remembered good friends, a loving mother, a slowly but steadily improving relationship with his sibling.

Kusuo is made of contradictions, and his feelings are about as consistent as the weather in early spring.

He had an older brother.

(He was the older brother)

His hair was hot pink and soft.

(His hair was blood red and rough, growing in scarlet curls)

He is an adult.

(He is a child.)

He was born healthy and strong.

(He was born sickly and thin.)

He had perished.

(He had survived.)

He wanted to forget. It had to be easier than mountains of knowledge he doesn't want. Of existential dread and overstimulation.

(He wanted to remember. The fear of forgetting eats at him, claws at him, chews at him from the inside out.)

He wants to die.

(HE WANTS TO LIVE.)

//

People visit their cottage in Godric's Hollow at random intervals. The most visitors they had at once were during their Saining and the feast afterward. There had been candles, and singing, and chanting, and the sprinkling of ash as they were welcomed into the magical community.

Lily, his new mother, seemed sad the entire time, mind flickering occasionally to a sister that Kusuo had yet to—and did not want to— meet. Her thoughts were bittersweet and soft as she held her children close. She wouldn't...couldn't replace his old mother. His heart (for all that he loathed admitting that he had one) would not let her. But perhaps he could learn to care for her (he already did).

James, on the other hand, had been ecstatic the whole celibration. At a point, his thoughts strayed slightly, wishing that his parents were there, but those ended before they had any real chance of taking root. He wore traditional Celtic clothes, danced, sang, and drank as though he had no worries. Affectionate to his children the entire time. For all that he had loved his first father, he hadn't been what one could regard as a 'good parent.' Kuniharu, Kusuo could replace, though even that too would take time.

A man, Sirius Black, had stepped forward later that night (and that was the moment when Kusuo remembered that; yeah, he and Harry had other family) and was pronounced their godfather. He was grinning (so bright, too bright, too much like home) like mad as he pressed the herbal paints and powders onto their faces, swearing to the Olde Gods, the New Gods, and Mother Magick herself that he would protect them.

It was loud, too loud, and Kusuo had a burning headache the entire time. While he appreciated the sentiment, he really did, he would have preferred to not feel like his head was splitting open while trying to sleep.

The ceremony ends and eventually, people bestow their blessings and prayers on the children and leave, with only his New Parents and Black remaining. The atmosphere calms and James and Lily take a moment to properly introduce him, as though the children could understand (and well... technically Kusuo could understand, but they didn't know that).

"Look boys," Lily cheered softly, "It's your Uncle Padfoot!"

And Black damn near glows with pride, as though the title was all he had ever wanted in life. Holds them close and takes in every bit of their appearances like a man starved, from the curve of Kusuo's nose to the colour of Harry's eyes. Practically shines with delight when he sees how much Harry takes after his father with his jet-black hair and warm ivory skin.

His hands are rough against Kusuo's soft newborn skin. Scarred and calloused from years of war and abuse. But his hold is gentle, experienced. Black had had a younger brother, hadn't he? Regulus, he thinks it was, or something of that sort.

When Black starts nattering on about all the things he was going to do with them when they got older is the exact moment Kusuo's brain shuts off.

Pathetic. Sentimentality is beneath him.