Hoshimto D. Yozora

there you see a boy standing there, well.. do you really see if you dont look down?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ・❥・

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ・❥・

 
sweet as sugar or sour as salt, you never will know
 

"please, im sorry"

" Maybe another time..? "

the four foot male that stood infront of you weighed 50 IBS due to his size. he seemed to have striking blue eyes. He had soft pink Blonde, with Pink highlights. He had a distant look to him, Lost. His left leg was missing, a pink prosthetic taking its place

" mm.. yeah I slept! "

The male who was born in japan, his name was Hoshimoto Dubois, now at the age of 18 sounded remarkably like Hintata Shota (haikyuu) MORE TO BE ADDED

" Im okay, I really am!"

A star to follow, but will never be foundHoshimoto Dubois, Or was once known as Hoshimoto Hitori-de was born on a humid summer night in Kamagasaki, when the air smelled of rain and cigarette smoke and the city refused to sleep. His mother, Kukan, held him with trembling hands, already exhausted, already worrying, enthralled with anger. He was small even then—thin-limbed, quiet, more observant than crying. The nurses said he would grow. Everyone always said that.
Kamagasaki raised him in pain.
Their apartment was narrow, with walls so thin Hoshimoto learned the neighbors’ routines before he learned words. His mother slept during the day and left at night, the click of the door always soft, always apologetic. Hoshimoto would sit up, listening to her footsteps fade, then crawl back beside his sister Tsuki, who clutched his sleeve in her sleep. He learned early that being awake was safer than being afraid.
Food came and went like the seasons, except the seasons were unpredictable. Some days there was warm rice and miso; other days, only bread crusts soaked in tea. Hoshimoto always pushed his bowl toward Tsuki, grinning and saying he wasn’t hungry. Over time, his body listened to the lie. He grew slower than other children, bones light, limbs thin, his height lagging behind year after year. Hunger didn’t hurt anymore—it became background noise, like traffic outside the window.
He never went to school.
At first, he thought it was temporary. Then he stopped asking. While other children carried backpacks past the apartment, Hoshimoto traced letters in the dust on the floor, copying signs he saw outside. He made games out of counting coins, out of timing trains, out of memorizing which alleys had kinder adults. Kamagasaki became his classroom, and survived its curriculum.
By six, he was responsible without realizing it. He walked Tsuki to the public baths, braided her hair badly, and told her stories he made up on the spot—heroes who were small but clever, who laughed in the face of monsters because monsters were easier to face when you smiled at them. He laughed a lot himself. Laughing made people less worried. Laughing made things lighter.
By eight, it was clear he wasn’t growing like the other kids. Adults commented on it openly, voices thick with pity. Hoshimoto just shrugged. Being small made it easier to slip through crowds, easier to sit on windowsills, easier to hide during games. He didn’t see what he was missing—only what he could still do.
His mother noticed, though.
Some nights she came home early, hands shaking, and stared at him like she was counting something she could never afford. She apologized often, for things Hoshimoto didn’t understand. He hugged her legs and told her it was okay. He meant it. If he said it enough times, maybe it would stay true.
By ten, Hoshimoto was still small, still bright-eyed with his clearly overgrown, black hair, still smiling at things other children had already learned to frown and grimace at. He didn’t know how far behind he was. He didn’t know what had been taken from him. All he knew was that Tsuki laughed when he made faces, that his mother smiled more when he didn’t complain, and that tomorrow always felt like it might be better if you greeted it happily.
And so he did—every time.
One night, everything changed.
Kukan had been working longer hours than usual, exhaustion pressing into her bones. At the Shōkan where she worked nights, the lights were always too bright and the air too heavy. That evening, her body finally gave out. She collapsed without warning—no drama, no spectacle—just a sudden, frightening stillness. Someone called for help. The police arrived with the ambulance.
She woke up hours later, groggy and ashamed, to questions she struggled to answer. When the officers insisted on escorting her home, she tried to refuse. She begged. She apologized. But rules were rules.
The apartment door opened to silence.
Inside, the officers found two children curled together on thin bedding, the room cold despite the season. There was little food. No school supplies. No records explaining why no one had noticed before. Hoshimoto blinked up at the unfamiliar uniforms, smiling politely out of habit, as if visitors were normal. Tsuki clutched his sleeve.
The truth settled in all at once.
Kukan broke down. She cried in a way Hoshimoto had never heard before—sharp, raw, full of guilt he didn’t understand. He stood on his toes to hug her, apologizing for things he hadn’t done, promising he was fine. He always said he was fine.
After that night, nothing was quite the same.
There were visits. Questions. Adults who looked at him too long and spoke too softly. Hoshimoto didn’t grasp the weight of it—only that people suddenly cared, and that care felt uncomfortable. He kept smiling through it all, still small, still bright-eyed, still unaware of how close everything had come to falling apart.
By ten, Hoshimoto remained short for his age, his body shaped by years of quiet hunger. But his spirit stayed stubbornly intact. He laughed easily, trusted too quickly, and believed tomorrow could always be better if you met it happily.
And somehow, despite everything, he still did.—-----------------------------------------------------------------The people came in the morning.
Hoshimoto knew something was wrong immediately, because mornings were usually quiet. His mother was normally asleep, the apartment wrapped in stillness until noon. But that day there were voices—low, careful voices—and the sound of shoes at the door.
He sat up on the old futon, rubbing his eyes. Tsuki stirred beside him, confused, her hair tangled across her face. Hoshimoto smiled at her out of instinct, the way he always did when things felt strange.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Probably visitors.”
The door slid open.
Two unfamiliar adults stood inside, speaking softly to Kukan. They wore plain clothes, carried folders, and kept glancing around the room like they were counting something invisible. Hoshimoto waved at them innocently, polite and bright. They hesitated before waving back.
Tsuki clutched his sleeve.
The adults knelt down so they were closer to eye level. They asked simple questions—names, ages, whether they’d eaten. Hoshimoto answered cheerfully, proud that he knew the answers. When they asked if he went to school, he paused, then shrugged.
“I’m learning at home,” he said. He didn’t know it was the wrong answer.
His mother’s voice cracked behind them.
The adults spoke gently, but their words felt heavy, like they were sinking into the room. They explained that Hoshimoto and Tsuki would be going somewhere else “for a little while.” Just until things were better. Just until their mother could rest.
Hoshimoto nodded immediately. A little while didn’t sound scary. He liked visiting new places. Tsuki didn’t nod. She pressed her face into his shoulder.
Kukan knelt in front of them, hands shaking as she adjusted Tsuki’s coat and buttoned Hoshimoto’s shirt twice because her fingers wouldn’t listen. She kept apologizing, over and over, for reasons Hoshimoto didn’t understand.
“It’s okay,” he told her, smiling wide. “We’ll be back soon, I know it!”
He believed it.
They were allowed to take only a few things. A change of clothes. Tsuki’s worn stuffed animal. Hoshimoto looked around the apartment, trying to decide if he should feel sad. It was just a room, after all. He’d left it before. He took Tsuki’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
Outside, the air felt too big.
The car door opened, and suddenly everything moved very fast. Tsuki cried quietly, trying not to be loud. Hoshimoto climbed in beside her, swinging his legs and humming under his breath to calm her down. He waved at their mother through the window.
She didn’t wave back. She was hunched over. Balling her eyes out.
As the car pulled away, Hoshimoto pressed his face to the glass, watching their building shrink into the street. He felt something tight in his chest, but he didn’t know what to call it. So he smiled instead, because smiling usually fixed things.
“It’s an adventure,” he told Tsuki softly. “We’ll come back. You’ll see.”
He believed that too.
At ten years old, Hoshimoto didn’t understand what being taken meant. He didn’t know that “a little while” could stretch longer than expected. He only knew that Tsuki needed him to be brave, and that as long as he stayed cheerful, everything would probably be okay.
So he stayed cheerful.
Even as the city carried them somewhere new.The room was quiet in the way Hoshimoto liked.
Foster care rooms were always too quiet at night, like they were holding their breath. Hoshimoto lay awake on his side, counting the faint glow of streetlight lines on the wall. Tsuki’s bed was across the room. She had been coughing earlier, a soft, tired sound that didn’t seem important enough to worry about. She’d smiled at him and said she was fine.
Tsuki always said she was fine.
In the morning, Hoshimoto woke up first.
That wasn’t unusual. He was used to being the one who got up early, the one who checked on things. He rolled out of bed and padded across the floor, careful not to wake her. He reached out and shook her shoulder gently.
“Tsuki,” he whispered. “It’s morning.”
She didn’t move.
He shook her again, a little harder this time, still smiling because mornings were supposed to start that way. Her hand slipped limply back onto the blanket. It was colder than he expected.
That was when the room stopped feeling quiet and started feeling wrong.
“Tsuki?” he said again, louder now. He laughed nervously. “You’re gonna get in trouble if you don’t wake up.”
Nothing.
His smile wavered, then returned, brighter, forced. He told himself she was sleeping deeply. She always slept deeply when she was tired. He climbed onto the edge of her bed and shook her with both hands.
“Hey—hey, come on. We’re gonna miss breakfast.”
Still nothing.
Hoshimoto didn’t understand what he was seeing. His brain refused to put the pieces together. Instead, it reached for excuses—she was sick, she was tired, she was playing a joke that went too far. He pressed his forehead against her arm, waiting for her to scold him, to laugh, to move.
She didn’t.
That was when he started yelling for help.
Adults rushed in. Voices overlapped. Someone pulled him back gently, firmly, hands on his shoulders. He tried to explain, words tumbling over each other—she wouldn’t wake up, she was cold, she was just sleeping, right?
No one answered him.
Someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Someone else told him to sit down. He kept turning his head toward Tsuki’s bed, waiting for her to suddenly sit up and complain about the noise.
She never did.
Later—much later—someone knelt in front of him and spoke slowly, carefully, like every word was fragile. They told him Tsuki was gone. They said it wasn’t his fault. They said they were sorry.
Hoshimoto nodded.
He didn’t cry.
He smiled instead, small and uncertain, because smiling was what he did when things didn’t make sense. Because if he smiled, maybe this was all just another misunderstanding. Maybe Tsuki would be back after a nap. Maybe this was temporary, like everything else had always been.
That night, he lay alone in the same room.
Tsuki’s bed was empty.
Hoshimoto turned toward it out of habit and whispered goodnight anyway. He told her about breakfast, about the weather, about nothing at all. He kept his voice light, cheerful, like she was still there listening.
At twelve years old, Hoshimoto didn’t yet understand what forever meant.
But something in him went quiet after that morning.
Something small and fragile that never quite woke up again.MORE WILL BE WRITTEN WHEN TIME COMES