adoptive child

Fukuzawa had found you wound on the streets. Bound up, unsafe, sickly, and malnourished. The rain patterned onto the ground, as the vivid memory of Fukuzawa holding a wagasa under your shivering and trembling body. As you looked outside, wrapped in a comfortable blanket that warmed you up inside, Fukuzawa himself had entered your now-shared abode, holding shampoo and various hygienic items in his hands. Despite his stern looks, he was quite the gentleman.

The sensation of warm water being poured on your head was confusing at first, but you then became accustomed to the feeling as Fukuzawa's wrinkled hands ruffled through your damp hair, slinking through the strands carefully so as to not harm you physically. Rubbing the shampoo and bubbles onto your hair, you both sound the silence comforting.