Ryouma was three months old when he first understood what his existence cost.
He couldn't do much yet. Couldn't sit up, couldn't hold his own head steady for more than a few seconds, couldn't communicate anything more complex than "I am uncomfortable" or "I am very uncomfortable." His body was a useless, floppy thing that required constant maintenance and had the structural integrity of a half-cooked noodle.
But he could listen.
And he could understand—not the words yet, not exactly, but the tone. The weight behind them. The way his mother's voice went tight when she was worried, the way his father's went quiet.
It was late. He knew it was late because the light coming through the gaps in the shutters had gone from gray to black, and because his parents moved differently at night—slower, heavier, like they were carrying something invisible.
Ryouma lay in his cradle—a wooden box his father had made, lined with cloth his mother had sewn—and kept his breathing steady. He'd learned quickly that if he seemed asleep, they talked more freely. If he fussed, they stopped everything to tend to him, and the conversation would die.
He didn't want the conversation to die. He wanted to understand where he was. Who they were.
What he'd done to them by being born.
"Did you eat?" his mother asked.
"I'm fine." His father's voice came from across the room. There was a scraping sound—a chair being pulled out from the table.
"That's not what I asked."
A pause. "I had some bread at midday."
"Kael."
"I'm fine, Mira. I'm not hungry."
Liar, Ryouma thought. He'd been alive long enough to recognize the particular tone of someone pretending they didn't need something.
"You can't work the docks on just bread," his mother said. There was a soft thump—something being set on the table. "There's stew left. Not much, but—"
"You should have it."
"I already ate."
"Mira."
"Don't 'Mira' me. You're the one lifting crates all day. I'm just—"
"You're feeding our son. That's not 'just' anything."
Silence. Ryouma kept his breathing even, his eyes closed. His cradle was in the corner of the room, close enough to hear but far enough that they might forget he was there.
"How much do we have left?" his father asked finally.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Eighteen silver," his mother said. "And three copper."
"Eighteen." His father's voice was flat. "Rent's due in two weeks."
"I know."
"That's twenty silver."
"I know, Kael."
Ryouma felt something twist in his chest—or where his chest would be, once he figured out how to properly locate his own body parts. Guilt, probably. He was good at guilt.
I'm expensive, he realized. I'm the reason they don't have enough.
"I can pick up extra shifts," his father said. "Marten said they need someone for the night loading. It's just until—"
"You're already working dawn to dusk. When would you sleep?"
"I'd manage."
"You'd collapse." His mother's voice was sharp now, the kind of sharp that came from fear rather than anger. "You'd collapse, or you'd make a mistake, and then where would we be? You think the dockmaster's going to pay for a healer if you drop a crate on your foot?"
"Then what do you want me to do, Mira? We're two silver short, and that's if nothing else goes wrong. If Ryouma gets sick, if the roof starts leaking again, if—"
"I know. I know." A shaky breath. "I'm not—I'm not blaming you. I'm just scared."
The chair scraped again. Footsteps. When his father spoke next, his voice was closer, softer.
"I'm scared too."
Ryouma kept his eyes closed and hated himself a little bit. Or a lot. It was hard to tell with baby emotions—everything felt too big, too immediate, like his feelings didn't have anywhere to go except everywhere.
I'm sorry, he thought. I'm sorry I'm here. I'm sorry I need things. I'm sorry I can't just—not exist for a while until you have enough money.
"We could ask your brother," his mother said quietly.
"No."
"Kael—"
"I said no." His father's voice was firm. Not angry, but final. "We're not asking Daren for money. Not again."
"It's not—he offered. Last time, he said if we ever needed—"
"And I'm sure he meant it. But I'm not going back to him every time we're short. He's got his own family to worry about."
"So do we."
"Exactly. So we figure it out ourselves."
His mother made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been something sadder. "You're so stubborn."
"You married me anyway."
"Clearly a lapse in judgment."
They were quiet for a moment. Ryouma heard fabric rustling—someone being held, probably. He tried not to think about how nice that sounded.
Focus, he told himself. You need to understand the situation. You need to know how bad it is.
"I could take in mending," his mother said eventually. "Lissa's been asking if I'd hem some dresses for her daughter. And the baker's wife mentioned she needed—"
"You're already up half the night with Ryouma."
"He's sleeping better now. Longer stretches."
I'm really not, Ryouma thought guiltily. I'm just pretending so you'll rest.
"Mira." His father's voice was gentle. "You're exhausted. I can see it."
"So are you."
"That's different."
"How? How is it different?"
"Because I'm not—" His father stopped. Started again. "You're still recovering. It's only been three months."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're tired and you're worried and you're trying to pretend you're not because you think I can't handle it."
"I don't think that."
"Then let me handle it. Let me figure out the money."
"We're supposed to figure it out together." His mother's voice cracked slightly. "That's what we said. Together."
"I know. I know, I just—" His father made a frustrated sound. "I just want to fix it. I want to make it better, and I can't, and it's—"
"It's not your job to fix everything alone."
"It feels like it should be."
"Well, it's not." A pause. "We're going to be okay, Kael. We always figure it out."
"Do we? Because right now it feels like we're one bad week away from—"
"We're not. We're going to be fine." His mother's voice was firm now, the kind of firm that was trying to convince herself as much as him. "I'll take in the mending. You'll pick up an extra shift or two—not the night loading, something reasonable. We'll make the rent. We'll feed our son. We'll be okay."
"And if we're not?"
"Then we'll figure that out too."
Silence again. Ryouma lay very still and tried not to feel like a burden. It wasn't working.
I'm going to make this up to you, he thought. I don't know how yet, but I will. I'm going to be the least troublesome baby in the history of babies. I'm going to sleep through the night and not get sick and not need expensive things. I'm going to—
He realized he was crying.
Not thinking about crying. Not planning to cry. Actually crying, tears leaking out of his stupid baby eyes and his breath hitching in a way he couldn't control.
No, he thought desperately. No, no, no, stop it, you're supposed to be asleep—
"Ryouma?" His mother's voice, closer now. Footsteps. "Oh, sweetheart, it's okay. It's okay."
Hands lifted him from the cradle—gentle, careful hands that knew exactly how to support his useless head. He was pressed against warmth, against the heartbeat he'd been listening to since before he was born.
"Shh," his mother murmured. "You're alright. Did we wake you? I'm sorry, baby. We didn't mean to be so loud."
You weren't loud, Ryouma thought miserably. I was eavesdropping. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm expensive. I'm sorry I exist.
"He's probably hungry," his father said, and Ryouma felt a new wave of guilt because he wasn't hungry, he was just sad, but now his mother was going to feed him anyway because that's what you did with crying babies.
"Or maybe he just needed to be held," his mother said softly. She was swaying slightly, rocking him in that instinctive way she had. "Sometimes that's all it is. Sometimes you just need to know someone's there."
Ryouma's crying tapered off into hiccups. He couldn't help it—being held really did make everything feel less terrible, even when you were drowning in guilt about being a financial burden.
"There we go," his mother said. "That's better, isn't it?"
No, Ryouma thought. Nothing's better. You still don't have enough money for rent and it's my fault.
But he was a baby, so all he could do was make a small, sad sound and let himself be comforted.
"He's so small," his father said quietly. He'd moved closer—Ryouma could feel his presence, large and warm. A hand touched his head, careful and calloused. "Hard to believe something this small can change everything."
"Best thing we ever did," his mother said.
I'm the reason you can't afford rent, Ryouma thought.
"Yeah," his father agreed. "He is."
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that they meant it. Ryouma could hear it in their voices, feel it in the way they held him. They weren't lying or trying to make themselves feel better. They genuinely believed he was worth it.
Worth the exhaustion. Worth the fear. Worth being two silver short on rent.
I'm going to fix this, Ryouma promised silently. I don't know how yet, but I'm going to make sure you never regret having me. I'm going to be so helpful. I'm going to grow up and get a job and pay you back for every single copper you spent on me.
I'm going to make this worth it.
His mother pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Love you, little one."
His father's hand was still on his head, warm and steady. "Love you, Ryouma."
And Ryouma, who'd died reaching for soup and been reborn without anyone choosing him, who'd spent three months being a useless, expensive burden on two people who deserved better, thought:
I love you too.
I'm sorry I can't say it yet.
I'm sorry I can't help.
I'm sorry I'm here.
But he was here. And they loved him anyway.
He'd just have to figure out how to deserve it.