Thread and Needle [Watanuki Perspective, Cha. 130]
Title: Thread and Needle
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to cha. 130
Word count: 1,233
Summary: They were more than gloves to Watanuki.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Clamp!
Dedication: Formangust, because her chibi!gloved-Doumeki fanart made my world.
A/N: err... i wrote this before i read the translation for cha. 132, but it felt like too much work to change it. oh, and i really know nothing about sewing.

Thread and Needle [Watanuki, Cha. 130]

I’ve always loved making mittens.

The ones I make for the little one from the oden shop were easy; they would’ve taken hardly any time at all, the stitching so simple I can practically do it in my sleep. But I take my time with them, marveling at how effortless it can be: a gift for a gift, a gesture for a gesture, a smile for a smile. Each so rewarding, because really, I’m just happy to see the young fox when I do. The way he stutters and clasps his bushy tail – he’s so shy, but he makes me feel lighter. He’s one of the few blessings of my sight.

It took more concentration for Kohane–chan’s. The bow on the front was easy enough, but I had no idea what size to make them. A little bigger than the little one’s, but with fingers. I was careful, deliberate – like I am around her. These gloves mean a lot: she’s so lonely, and I can’t stand to see the sadness in her eyes. She needs someone to think of her, to say her name with affection, to see her and not her extraordinary abilities, to bring her gifts for no reason at all. She needs a friend, and it makes me happy to be there for her, like with the spirit woman. But Kohane–chan’s real, very real. The gloves are a little lopsided, and one of the darts at the wrist is crooked, but they are warm and soft, and she will be reminded she had a friend whenever she wears them.

Himawari’s go a little quicker. I’m used to the fingered pattern by now, so I flourished a little, sewing a simple daisy onto the backs of them. Because I want Himawari to know that her friendship is more than enough. That I’m not afraid, because I learned to live with that fear long before she came along. Her smile will always make my world a brighter place, no matter what. The stitching on her gloves is even and perfect, just like her smile, and the ribbon to sash them shut is the same shade as the flowers. They’re cute and friendly, just like Himawari.

I clean my kitchen and finish my homework before I’m forced by boredom to sit and stare down the last two yards of fleece that are neatly folded into a square. Bits of ribbon, a fluffy pom–pom or two, the snipped edges of yellow fabric clutter up the workspace. My needles and sharp scissors wait expectantly, just like you, Doumeki: Where’s my thank you gift? Of course, you would count on a thank you gift, with how eternally rude you are.

I clear away the unnecessary things carefully, sweeping it all into a pile and throwing it away. I don’t need any of it. All I need is a needle, scissors, thread, fabric. I’m not even going to use the sewing machine for the seams. I want to do this all by hand, as painstakingly and with as many pricked fingers as possible. I want my hands to remember tomorrow what they’re doing tonight, so maybe I can have the courage to give them to you.

I wanted to deny what the extra fleece was for; a fluke measure, a spare stash. But I can’t anymore, can I? I guess that’s why I finally said thank you: I’ve got half your eye and your blood, you’ve got scars and screwed up depth perception, and I don’t want…

I don’t want that to be all that shows for it.

I spread the fleece flat across the table, and I realize I don’t know what size to make them. Your hands are bigger than mine, I do know that. But I, of all people, should know every little crease and scar and fold, for how many times they’ve grabbed me and carried me and dragged me to safety.

But I do remember the once, when you weren’t looking, I picked up your bow to see how heavy it was. It felt awkward in one hand, misbalanced, but you carry it with natural ease. Your left hand covers nearly the entire handle, while mine still had nearly an inch on either side. Yet your fingers aren’t any longer than mine. Our hands are just like us: You’re broad and solid, I’m narrow and flexible.

I trace the pattern around my hand, adjusting accordingly, and I begin to cut and thread and sew, thinking about all I’ve – we’ve – been through. You still make me so angry, when you mock me with that deadpan face, when you expect me to procure chestnuts and all manner of out–of–season foods, when you blithely cast aside my concern like you did with my eye. But you don’t ever get anything from me, aside from bento and entertainment – both of which I’m sure you could find anywhere else, especially with all the girls that swoon over you. You give a mile, and I take it because all too often it means life or death for me. But I never give, do I? Not even an inch.

I always wanted to rely on no one but myself. And I know that means not taking anything for granted. But that’s all we seem to do, isn’t it? Even your compliments about my cooking are veiled as insults, and I always justified not thanking you properly by clinging to the fact I never asked you to be around in the first place.

Hell, I even made three pairs of gloves so I wouldn’t have to admit I wanted to give you something. But maybe, with these as a thank you, I’ll admit that yes, I’m grateful you’re around. I’m hoping this will break that cycle, and maybe we won’t take each other for granted anymore. Maybe.

It takes me a long time to finish them. But when I finally do, they’re perfect: the seams are clean, the darts tight and even, and they match absolutely. I stare at them, back aching from bending over the table, fingertips pink and tender, eyes blurry with exhaustion, and I think of the hands that will fill them in the morning. Hands I will cover and keep warm, hands I will protect the only way I can. Hands I have come to rely on, but will not take for granted anymore.

When I meet you near the park before school, I hand them to you wordlessly. You stop, tuck your book bag under your arm – glance at me like you can’t believe it, like I’m insane, like I’m going to start screaming at you any second – and I will, if you don’t hurry up. So I cross my arms and tap my foot, waiting, and you finally slip them over your bare hands and stare, flexing your fingers as if they’re not real. Stare like it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever known, and I pause to savor that look on your face – like waking up to sunrise – before one of us says something stupid and ruins the moment.

You stare, and I know you’re not taking this for granted – I hope that maybe you understand, because you should know as well as I do that I won’t say it aloud.

But I do appreciate you, Doumeki. I do, and I always will.