~…*AND* A WARNING, YOU LUCKY CHILDREN!~ This isn’t a shounen-ai, it’s more a Jyou-Iori friendship fic than anything else, but I admit it’s hard to write a story around a George Michael song without it picking up some mildly naughty overtones. (I did try to work the story segments in with the lyrics so they wouldn’t seem so hormonal, though…) So if you dig Jyouri, feel free to interpret it that way, but it wasn’t intended as such. Also it’s just generally sappy and melodramatic, so…yeah. This is told in alternating viewpoints, so whenever you see this lovely little flowery thing (~*~), remember to switch your mental cameras, or whatever. ^^*

FATHER FIGURE

By Aardwulf

February 2001

It happened three years ago today, three years that feel like an eternity and a mere heartbeat at the same time. Usually I try not to think about it, but when this time of the year rolls around, thoughts and memories flood my brain no matter how I try to keep them at bay.

That's all I wanted,

Something special, something sacred,

In your eyes.

Three years, and it still hurts to think about it, and I don’t know why. Sometimes the memories are too much to handle and I feel like I’m going to fall apart in front of everyone.

Just for one moment,

To be bold and naked,

At your side.

People encourage me to talk about it; they say that it helps ease the pain to get things out in the open. I don’t think that’s true. There are things I don’t want to talk about, things I don’t think I can explain to anybody; things no one would understand. Mother and Grandfather wouldn’t understand; Miyako and the other kids wouldn’t understand; Armadimon certainly wouldn’t understand, though I know he’d try.

Sometimes I think that you never

Understand me.

But something tells me together,

We'll be happy.

I suddenly find myself wondering what Jyou is up to. I seem to think about him a lot lately, for some reason.

~*~

I’m feeling a little upset right at the moment. I just got off the cell phone with my dad; we had another argument about my grades. I get a ninety-eight on my most recent test, but is that good enough for him? Of course not. “What happened to the other two percent?” he asks me. “Your brothers wouldn’t have missed that two percent.” Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating.

That's all you wanted,

Someone special, someone sacred,

In your life.

As I storm down the sidewalk, heading home from the train station, I see a familiar small figure crossing the street up ahead. I pause, and Iori steps onto the sidewalk, and his eyes meet mine. He looks upset about something, and kind of startled, as though I’ve suddenly appeared out of thin air. For a few moments we just stand there, studying each other, and I’m amazed by the depths of emotion that are conveyed in those usually inscrutable green eyes. Most of the time, there’s a wall behind those eyes that prevents anyone from seeing inside him, but on certain rare moments – like now, or that time he’d found his second Digimental and didn’t want to take it because he’d been so upset about having to tell a lie – that wall crumbles and his very soul is laid bare for the world to see.

Just for one moment,

To be warm and naked,

At my side.

I approach him, not missing the fact that he seems to be avoiding my gaze. “Iori-kun?” I ask, tentatively. “Is something wrong?…” He shakes his head, mutely, as though he’s ashamed to admit something’s bothering him. Inwardly, I sigh. He knows he can trust me, doesn’t he? Mine was the Crest of Faithfulness, after all.

Sometimes I think that you never

Understand me.

But something tells me together,

We'll be happy.

He startles a little as I put my hand on his shoulder to guide him down the sidewalk towards the park. He’s silent during the walk, but I can practically feel the tension building up inside him, seeking a release. We find a bench in a secluded spot in the park and sit down. The silence that hangs over us is peppered with the sounds of birdsong and distant voices. Eventually, I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees, and turn to catch his gaze. “Whatever’s bothering you, Iori-kun,” I say gently, “you can tell me.”

I will be your father figure,

Put your tiny hand in mine.

I will be your preacher, teacher,

Anything you have in mind.

He begins haltingly, speaking in such soft tones that I can barely discern the words. He tells me about his father who died when Iori was only six. He describes the anger he felt towards his father, the anger of a confused little boy who couldn’t understand why his papa had abandoned him. He speaks of the guilt that has replaced that anger, of feelings of helplessness, the fear of losing the constant battle to maintain control over his life and his emotions. And finally, in a voice thick with tears, he says that he fears everyone is afraid to approach him and care about him because he’s pushed them away with his total lack of emotion.

I will be your father figure,

I have had enough of crime.

I will be the one who loves you,

Till the end of time.

My heart aches for the boy who has been so badly wounded by the loss of his parent, and for a brief moment I think guiltily of my argument with my own father.

~*~

I’d never intended to tell this to anyone. I’ve never even mentioned it to my own family, but here I sit on a park bench with Jyou, whom I barely know at all but who nonetheless inspires such trust in me that I can’t help but feel safe around him. Still…I don’t like showing my feelings so openly. It just…hurts too much. It feels wrong, somehow.

That's all I wanted,

Sometimes love can be mistaken

For a crime.

I hold back a sniffle and refrain from wiping my eyes. I’ve cried in front of Jyou before, so it’s not as if it’d be anything new, but the memory of that little lapse still fills me with shame. Jyou didn’t act ashamed of me, though. He didn’t eye me with the reprimanding glare other people might have given me, didn’t tell me to buck up and be a man. His eyes were filled with understanding, and he spoke to me as though I were an equal, someone whose feelings mattered. Guardedly, cautiously, I steal a glance at him, and see that he’s wearing that same expression now. There’s none of the pity I expect to see when I mention my dead father, no horror or disgust when I confess my childish anger. His dark eyes are sympathetic and kind, but never pitying.

That's all I wanted,

Just to see my baby's

Blue eyes shine.

He tells me he’s sorry. I’ve heard those words many times before, but this time I don’t feel indignant when I hear them. He doesn’t feel sorry *for* me; he’s sorry that something awful happened. There’s a difference, and that difference only makes my respect for him grow. He reminds me of my grandfather, so quiet and dignified and thoughtful, and he seems so wise, even though I know he’s still little more than a boy like me.

This time I think that my friend

Understands me.

If we have faith in each other,

Then we can be

Strong.

Wise and caring…faithful…the kind of person who would give up everything to protect what mattered to him. Just like Grandfather. Just like…

~*~

He’s struggling so manfully not to cry, his hands twisting the hem of his shirt into a wrinkled mess. There’s no shame, I tell him, in expressing what you feel. Hiding your feelings is not the mark of maturity; being a man does not mean being dead to emotion.

I will be your father figure,

Put your tiny hand in mine.

I will be your preacher, teacher,

Anything you have in mind.

His shoulders shake wildly and I draw his tiny unresisting form into a comforting embrace. He cries brokenly, grieving the loss of a man he loved dearly, the loss of his innocence.

I will be your father figure,

I have had enough of crime.

I will be the one who loves you,

Till the end of time.

I say nothing as he weeps; there’s no solace to be found in empty assurances that everything is all right when it so obviously isn’t. I remain silent, simply holding him, his face buried in the front of my shirt and his hands clutching at the edges of my jacket. I hold him, letting him know that I am neither put off by his stoicism nor embarrassed by his emotionality.

Just hold on... hold on...

And I won't let you go.

~*~

I cry. I cry, and I don’t feel ashamed or awkward, don’t feel as though I’m failing to live up to some standard of manliness. He feels so warm and solid and comforting, the way someone should feel whom you respect and care about and look up to.

I will be your father figure,

Put your tiny hand in mine.

I will be your preacher, teacher,

Anything you have in mind.

Gradually I pull away, my tears spent, for now. His hand is on my back, rubbing my shoulders gently, and I can feel his eyes on me, full of the paternal kindness I’ve seen there so often before. I draw a shaky breath, and look up at him, into that dark, compassionate gaze.

I will be your father figure,

I have had enough of crime.

I will be the one who loves you,

Till the end of time.

“Jyou,” I ask, drawing my sleeve quickly across my eyes. “…Jyou, would you…I mean, could you…could you…be my daddy?”

~*~

The question takes me by surprise, I have to admit. But his eyes, bright with tears, are earnest and serious, the walls behind them gone for now. It is not an inquiry made lightly, and I can tell that to be considered worthy of such a position is a great privilege.

“Iori,” I tell him, honestly and soberly, “I would be honoured.”

He chokes a little, and then he smiles, coaxing a few remaining tears to trail down his cheeks. His hand slips into mine, soft and warm, and he leans against my shoulder with the simple faith of a child.

We remain on the bench in the park as the sun edges towards the horizon, feeling safe and complete in the presence of each other’s love and trust.

I will be your father,

I will be your preacher...

I will be your father,

I will be your daddy...

I will be the one who loves you

Till the end of time.

-fin-

A/N – Y’know, writing it out I can’t help but think that the whole “I cannot cry for fear of emasculating myself” bit sounds more like Matt…hn.

Dedicated to my father, who died 28 February 1994.