I'm surprised I even admitted it. But then, it's been hanging over me like a cloud for months now. I suppose I had to face it eventually, and what better place than here, with Masato who knows me better than anyone?
He's not looking at my body anymore, he's looking across it, past his, to the wall behind. There's still little marks etched there, showing how 'tall' I was getting. How tall we were making the avatar be, anyway. But I liked it, as a kid. I liked feeling like I was growing up, even if I knew at the time there was something wrong, my body wasn't changing, Masato wasn't changing. It was just me, just for me. So my body could keep up with my mind.
That makes my stomach twist, though it's metaphorical, of course.
Everything is metaphorical, these days.
He puts an arm around my shoulders, I can sense the weight of it, the presence. And he gives me a little tug, and I let him, though he's shorter than me now, and we're equally strong.
I smirk a bit, and nod. "I remember." His pronunciation was atrocious at first, but he got better. He got to the point where he sang it like... Like I did. Like I could. I never corrected him, and only sang along for the last line, because the bells ringing was always our favorite part. I never did figure out how he got better. "It made me feel safe."
I lean against him a bit, duck just a bit so my head rests on his shoulder.
"Joyeux Noël, papa."
I surprise myself there. I haven't made that slip, called him that, in years. I rarely called my own father papa, he was almost always tou san, even when we were in France.
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He's not looking at my body anymore, he's looking across it, past his, to the wall behind. There's still little marks etched there, showing how 'tall' I was getting. How tall we were making the avatar be, anyway. But I liked it, as a kid. I liked feeling like I was growing up, even if I knew at the time there was something wrong, my body wasn't changing, Masato wasn't changing. It was just me, just for me. So my body could keep up with my mind.
That makes my stomach twist, though it's metaphorical, of course.
Everything is metaphorical, these days.
He puts an arm around my shoulders, I can sense the weight of it, the presence. And he gives me a little tug, and I let him, though he's shorter than me now, and we're equally strong.
I smirk a bit, and nod. "I remember." His pronunciation was atrocious at first, but he got better. He got to the point where he sang it like... Like I did. Like I could. I never corrected him, and only sang along for the last line, because the bells ringing was always our favorite part. I never did figure out how he got better. "It made me feel safe."
I lean against him a bit, duck just a bit so my head rests on his shoulder.
"Joyeux Noël, papa."
I surprise myself there. I haven't made that slip, called him that, in years. I rarely called my own father papa, he was almost always tou san, even when we were in France.