whans_whale.2
Level 4
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· · ─ · Hoshimoto D. Yozora · ─ · ·
星本・デュボワ・夜空
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.
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A star will shine brightest when at its end
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—✦—
Hoshimoto Dubois Yozora is a 4’0 boy with an energetic personality that seems to be constantly going through different emotions all at the same time. Seemingly overwhelmed. With well taken care of blonde bleached hair that had solid pastel pink streaks inside of it and very faint piercing holes in his face. Hoshimoto is a pure japanese boy although he had a french accent.· · ─ · Hoshimoto D. Yozora · ─ · ·
星本・デュボワ・夜空
.
.
.
A star will shine brightest when at its end
______________________________________________________________________________
—✦—
ENFP-T
—✦—
─ Daily Routine ─
Morning
Hoshimoto wakes up slowly, taking a moment to sit in bed before getting up. He opens the curtains, drinks some water with electrolytes, and washes his face before brushing his teeth and fixing his hair. After leaving his bed a mess, he spends a few minutes stretching, putting on his prosthetic, keeping his movements slow and controlled. He eats a simple breakfast, probaly toast, while watching somthing on his TV, Before leaving, he briefly looks over what he needs to accomplish that day and makes a small mental note of anything he wants to remember.
Night
At night, Hoshimoto begins by putting his things away and tidying his room. He washes up, changes into comfortable clothes, and dims the lights. Before getting into bed, he spends a few quiet minutes reflecting on his day, thinking about what happened, what he learned, and anything he could have handled differently. If he is feeling up to it he might meditate. Sometimes he writes these thoughts down in a small notebook. He then reads for a little while before closing his book, putting everything aside, and sitting quietly for a few minutes of meditation or breathing. Once he feels settled or got bored, he goes to sleep, popping a melatonin, listening to the sound of white noses.
Visual Information
Abnormalities
Bipolar | ADHD | MDD |
—✦—
Backstory
✦ 0-12 ✦
✦12-12.5 ✦
✦12.5-14 ✦
✦14-16 ✦
Still a WIP bare with me.. Thank u Kuro for helping me write!!
Backstory
✦ 0-12 ✦
Hoshimoto Dubois Yozora, 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. Every doctor.
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.” His voice had a minor lisp from missing his two front teeth.
The door slid open.
Two unfamiliar adults stood inside, speaking softly to Kukan. They wore plain but still proffesional 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 of a Goat. 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.
After this day Hoshimoto would never see Tsuki
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.” His voice had a minor lisp from missing his two front teeth.
The door slid open.
Two unfamiliar adults stood inside, speaking softly to Kukan. They wore plain but still proffesional 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 of a Goat. 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.
After this day Hoshimoto would never see Tsuki
I havent written this. fyi didnt go well.
✦12.5-14 ✦
At twelve and a half years old, Hoshimoto was placed with his second foster family. After the first home had ended badly, he arrived at the house of an elderly French couple with very little besides a small bag of clothes and the few belongings he had managed to keep, Including Tsuki's goat. The couple, the Dubois family, lived quietly in an aging house filled with books, plants, photographs, and little reminders of the life they had built together. They were older, but patient, and Hoshimoto quickly discovered that their home was much different from the one he had come from.
At first, Hoshimoto was unusually quiet. He watched the couple carefully, trying to understand what was wantedof him. He was used to moving from place to place and had learned not to become attached too quickly. Even so, the warmth of the house slowly began to wear down that caution. He became comfortable sitting at the kitchen table, helping with small chores, wandering through the garden, and spending quiet afternoons near the couple while they went about their routines. For the first time in a while, he began behaving less like a child waiting to be moved again and more like a child who believed he might actually be allowed to stay.
The Dubois family were French, and they began teaching Hoshimoto their language. What started as simple lessons gradually became part of his everyday life. Words were written beside objects around the house, small phrases were repeated during meals, and his notebooks slowly filled with French vocabulary. Hoshimoto's pronunciation was often clumsy, and he frequently mixed French with Japanese, but he enjoyed learning. He began picking up expressions from the couple without realizing it, sometimes using French words when he was excited or absent-mindedly practicing them while doing his chores.
By thirteen, French had become something personal to him. It reminded him of the house, the garden, the smell of food coming from the kitchen, and the two people who had patiently taught him. He started filling the margins of his notebooks with little stars and drawings, decorating his French lessons as though they were something precious. The language became one of the few things he could carry with him wherever he went.
For almost a year and a half, Hoshimoto settled into the rhythm of the household. He became brighter and more expressive, and the nervousness he had arrived with gradually faded. He still had difficulties, particularly with school, routines, and adjusting to expectations, but the Dubois family tried to accommodate him. They cared about him deeply, even when they struggled to understand how much support he actually needed.
As Hoshimoto grew older, however, those difficulties became harder for them to manage. The couple's age began to catch up with them. They found themselves unable to keep up with school requirements, appointments, and the emotional demands of caring for a child who had already experienced so much instability. They tried to make things work, but eventually it became clear that affection alone wasn't enough. Hoshimoto needed more support than they were capable of providing.
He did not understand what was happening at first. He only noticed that things around the house had begun changing. There were more quiet conversations between the couple, more paperwork, and more moments when they looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place. Hoshimoto became increasingly anxious without knowing why. He tried harder to be helpful, cleaning up after himself and spending more time with his schoolwork. He seemed determined to prove that he could make things easier.
It didn't change anything.
At fourteen, Hoshimoto's belongings were packed into the same small bag he had arrived with. His French notebook was placed carefully inside, along with the few possessions that had accumulated during his time there. The house that had slowly become familiar suddenly felt strange. The rooms were the same, the plants still sat beside the windows, and the little decorations remained on the shelves, but Hoshimoto could no longer convince himself that he belonged there.
Before leaving, he lingered in the doorway for a long time. He looked back at the house, memorizing details he had never thought he would need to remember. The kitchen table where he had practiced French. The garden where he had spent quiet afternoons. The chair where he had sat beside the couple. All of it had become part of his idea of what a home was supposed to feel like.
Then he left.
The Dubois family had not stopped caring about him. They had simply reached the point where they could no longer care for him in the way he needed. Hoshimoto was returned to foster care carrying his little bag and his French notebook, once again becoming a child waiting for another family to take him in.
He kept studying French afterward.
At first, Hoshimoto was unusually quiet. He watched the couple carefully, trying to understand what was wantedof him. He was used to moving from place to place and had learned not to become attached too quickly. Even so, the warmth of the house slowly began to wear down that caution. He became comfortable sitting at the kitchen table, helping with small chores, wandering through the garden, and spending quiet afternoons near the couple while they went about their routines. For the first time in a while, he began behaving less like a child waiting to be moved again and more like a child who believed he might actually be allowed to stay.
The Dubois family were French, and they began teaching Hoshimoto their language. What started as simple lessons gradually became part of his everyday life. Words were written beside objects around the house, small phrases were repeated during meals, and his notebooks slowly filled with French vocabulary. Hoshimoto's pronunciation was often clumsy, and he frequently mixed French with Japanese, but he enjoyed learning. He began picking up expressions from the couple without realizing it, sometimes using French words when he was excited or absent-mindedly practicing them while doing his chores.
By thirteen, French had become something personal to him. It reminded him of the house, the garden, the smell of food coming from the kitchen, and the two people who had patiently taught him. He started filling the margins of his notebooks with little stars and drawings, decorating his French lessons as though they were something precious. The language became one of the few things he could carry with him wherever he went.
For almost a year and a half, Hoshimoto settled into the rhythm of the household. He became brighter and more expressive, and the nervousness he had arrived with gradually faded. He still had difficulties, particularly with school, routines, and adjusting to expectations, but the Dubois family tried to accommodate him. They cared about him deeply, even when they struggled to understand how much support he actually needed.
As Hoshimoto grew older, however, those difficulties became harder for them to manage. The couple's age began to catch up with them. They found themselves unable to keep up with school requirements, appointments, and the emotional demands of caring for a child who had already experienced so much instability. They tried to make things work, but eventually it became clear that affection alone wasn't enough. Hoshimoto needed more support than they were capable of providing.
He did not understand what was happening at first. He only noticed that things around the house had begun changing. There were more quiet conversations between the couple, more paperwork, and more moments when they looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place. Hoshimoto became increasingly anxious without knowing why. He tried harder to be helpful, cleaning up after himself and spending more time with his schoolwork. He seemed determined to prove that he could make things easier.
It didn't change anything.
At fourteen, Hoshimoto's belongings were packed into the same small bag he had arrived with. His French notebook was placed carefully inside, along with the few possessions that had accumulated during his time there. The house that had slowly become familiar suddenly felt strange. The rooms were the same, the plants still sat beside the windows, and the little decorations remained on the shelves, but Hoshimoto could no longer convince himself that he belonged there.
Before leaving, he lingered in the doorway for a long time. He looked back at the house, memorizing details he had never thought he would need to remember. The kitchen table where he had practiced French. The garden where he had spent quiet afternoons. The chair where he had sat beside the couple. All of it had become part of his idea of what a home was supposed to feel like.
Then he left.
The Dubois family had not stopped caring about him. They had simply reached the point where they could no longer care for him in the way he needed. Hoshimoto was returned to foster care carrying his little bag and his French notebook, once again becoming a child waiting for another family to take him in.
He kept studying French afterward.
✦14-16 ✦
Again. Havent written this. Good family this time!!
Still a WIP bare with me.. Thank u Kuro for helping me write!!