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Ichimatsu is angry. For no reason, with no source he could vent himself at, disgusted with every living thing in the existence, most of all himself. He is sitting in the living room legs crossed under the table and elbows propped on the wooden surface as he stares in the direction of the running TV but his eyes, unfocused, are looking past it as he tries to contain himself.
This state of mind isn't unusual for the fourth son, it'd be an understatement to even say he isn't familiar with it by this point. Not that it means it'd get any less unpleasant whenever his brain decided to fuck with him this way out of nowhere, leaving him pissy and a pain in the ass to deal with for everyone around him for an uncertain period of time.
“Geez, Ichimatsu-nii-san is in one of his moods again.”
“What did we do to you, Ichimatsu, stop glaring at us like that. Go jack off if you feel pent up.”
“Just smile, nii-san! Smile!”
“Maybe you should get a therapist or something. A professional help.”
They didn't understand. None of the four brothers who always found it necessary to comment on him understood a damn thing. And the last one, he never even sad anything, just treated him like he always did. With seemingly undying brotherly love and attention he never asked for. He hated it. Hated to admit that it somehow, magically, made him feel at least a little better.
But none of them are around this time, Ichimatsu sitting in the house alone, too many thoughts flooding his head, all bad, wrong and hurtful. His knees are twitching, nails digging into skin as he feels tears welling up in his eyes only to never overflow and dissipate. Throat sore, he grits his teeth, the sound echoing in his skull and he considers his options, ways how to lessen the feeling, how to escape it.
And just like every time, there really only seems to be one, right?
He reaches into his parka pocket and takes in the familiar feeling of cold metal through his fingers as he wraps his hand around a small foldable knife. It was a present from one of his brothers, Karamatsu, for a birthday two years ago. “I saw the purple handle and thought you might like it.” It was so sincere, not like the shitty, trashy garbage they tended to give each other. A sick smile splays on Ichimatsu lips as he opens it and watches the sharp blade glimmer in the lights. What irony, that it's the well-thought gift from him that he uses for this.
He rolls up the sleeve of his parka, revealing his pale forearm. He always takes great care at being cautious and delicate, it's not like he wants everyone to know what he's doing when they're not looking. The scars are small and barely visible if one doesn't deliberately look for them. Those few times someone actually noticed when they weren’t fully healed yet, he brushed it off as scratches from cats and they took it, not giving it a second thought.
Ichimatsu places his arm onto the table, palm up, and leans closer as he looks for a spot, an empty one so he doesn't disturb any of the healed ones. Finally, with practiced precision, he lines the blade with the desired place and takes a deep breath. His body shakes as he waits for the sensation, waits for the feeling of relief it always brings.
He makes a small noise as the metal cuts into his skin and red droplets form alongside the knife. It's not enough yet though. He drags the blade down the side of his wrist, more blood coming out at his actions, forming a little stream that wraps down like a ribbon around his wrist, hugging his arm in warmth. And as it leaves his body, it takes some of the anger, the agonizingly heavy and frustrating feeling with it. He sighs, blessedly light as if he could just float up like a cloud any second now and closes his eyes, leaning back against the hand previously holding the knife that is now safely tucked back in the pocket.
Maybe it's the oh so desired feeling of weightlessness, or the TV still playing in the background or simply the fact Ichimatsu doesn't care at the moment that he doesn't hear it until it's too late. The few steps it takes from the house entrance to the door, the clack and slide of wood as the door open and the familiar voice speaks up.
“Buraza! I am home! How--” Karamatsu’s bright smile freezes when he takes in the scene, Ichimatsu's horrified expression and red, so much red.
“Ichimatsu! Did you hurt yourself, are you okay?” Karamatsu quickly closes the distance between them and kneels down by Ichimatsu's side, hands flailing as he tries to get a better look. But Ichimatsu snaps his hand away from him, pressing it to his chest and turns his back at Karamatsu. His shoulders are trembling and breath hitching. He saw me, he saw me, he saw me… It keeps repeating in his mind and he can feel the tears overflow and spill down his cheeks. Oh god.
“Ichimatsu, how did this happen?” Karamatsu's voice is quiet now, unusually reserved and Ichimatsu closes his eyes, hunching his back, trying to become smaller, small enough to disappear. The hot blood is soaking into his parka, a huge dark stain that will never wash out “Did you…” Don't say it, please. “Did you do this to yourself?” It's just a whisper but it echoes in his mind louder than thunder. Yes, he did. But he never wanted anyone to know.
“Leave me alone,” he sobs through the tears, voice thick and wavering. He wishes Karamatsu would just forget, that he could erase the memory from his mind. But life was never kind to him.
“No, I want to help you. And you'll let me,” Karamatsu says in a calm voice, as if talking to a frightened animal. There are hands at his side as he moves behind Ichimatsu, taking Ichimatsu’s palms into his and gently unwrapping his fingers from the death clutch they have on the fabric. Ichimatsu wants to fight him, shake him off, run away and be alone. But he does none of that. He gives in to Karamatsu's touches, let's him open his arms and reveal the wound, still bleeding at his wrist. Ichimatsu turns his head away, ashamed of seeing it, of showing it to someone else.
Karamatsu is silent as he studies it, then his whole body tenses and he tugs at him, brings the arm closer to get a better look. “Oh no…” he breathes out and Ichimatsu knows what he just found, the thin white lines of past cuts.
“No-nobody is making you look--!” Ichimatsu shouts as he whips his head to Karamatsu, ready to send him to hell, ready for disappointment or disgust, for being judged. But he finds none of that, instead it's despair, hopelessness in his eyes and furrowed brows as he counts how many there are.
Karamatsu places his hand on the little cuts, feeling the little bumps of the scarred skin as he caresses them gently.
“Stop it, please,” Ichimatsu shakes his head, his heart squeezing with guilt and shame at every touch and look, “I can handle it myself, just forget about it.”
“No,” Karamatsu says resolutely, meeting Ichimatsu's stare, “I said I'd help you. I want to be here for you, after all…” a bittersweet smile spreads on his lips, “we carry the same burden.”
The words take a few seconds to register in Ichimatsu's brain and his eyes widen when he realizes that his brother also… “Why?” is all he asks, though there are dozens other questions popping up one after another in his mind.
Karamatsu chuckles, the sound insincere and dripping with pain. “Why do you?” he asks back. And it’s fair, Ichimatsu didn’t tell him anything yet either, didn’t even show one slither of appreciation for being taken care of. He has no right to ask.
Karamatsu lets it go and stands up, lifting Ichimatsu’s hand with him carefully, watching out to make sure no drops fall onto the tatami floor. “Let’s get you cleaned and patched up.”
Ichimatsu follows him into the bathroom where he’s sat at the edge of the bath tub, Karamatsu instructing him to hold the hand up above the heart level. He quickly scavenges the room for all the medical supplies needed before kneeling before him. There’s a moment of quiet as he watches the wound, the troubled expression from before settling in again. Since it’s not that deep, it has already started to close a bit, much less blood trickling out by now.
“I’ll be careful,” is all he says before cleaning the cut, disinfecting it… It’s obvious how automatically he works, the movements skilled and precise. Like he must’ve done it too many times.
“Where…” he says, immediately regretting opening his mouth when Karamatsu’s eyes rise up to meet his. But he might as well go for it now. “Where do you hide them?” He doesn’t have to be specific, they both know what he’s asking. And it’s understandable, out of all of them it’s Karamatsu who wears the stupid, too short and revealing outfits he describes as perfect fashion. They all bathe at the public bathouse together as well, surely he would’ve noticed by now. Right?
Karamatsu doesn’t reply right away. “I’m not surprised you never noticed, I don’t think anyone did. I’m used to it.” Though it doesn’t answer this question, it gives Ichimatsu an idea about the other one. Why? Of course he expected this to be the reason, it’s not like it’s a secret how badly they treat him sometimes, Ichimatsu himself probably being the worst in this regard. It was never supposed to come to this, this far.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, staring at the floor. His own reasons seemed so dumb compared to the actual demons Karamatsu must’ve been dealing with. Demons Ichimatsu himself has spawned. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Karamatsu says, not once stopping treating the cut, almost done now. “I always knew you never meant harm.” He didn’t. “I quit some time ago.” The words make Ichimatsu look up into his eyes, searching for an answer to HOW? How could he do that, find the strength, the willpower. “And you can too. Have to.” No, he can’t. He tried and failed miserably, again and again. It’s impossible to avoid it, like a one-way exit. No turns, no going back.
Karamatsu must see it in his eyes, the conclusion Ichimatsu has gotten to. With the cut bandaged up, he sighs and sits down on the cold tiles, sitting cross-legged as he leans back against the wall. “Can I…” he’s looking for words, opening his mouth a few times before continuing. “Is there anything I can do?” The pleading way he looks at Ichimatsu makes him want to scream. Is there no limit to his generosity, to how far he’s willing to go to help others even if it profits him in no way? And is there really anything he can do to save him?
“You’ve already done more than enough.” Ichimatsu wants to hide away again as he denies him, the guilt rushing back in full power. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve him.
“Ichimatsu, please, I don’t want you to, to…” The words are never voiced but Ichimatsu understands now, why he tries so much, what Karamatsu really fears. And if he’s perfectly honest with himself it’s not like he can say it couldn’t happen.
“That’s selfish,” Ichimatsu tells him and Karamatsu flinches, as if he slapped him in the face. He can see he wants to protest, wants to explain himself but Ichimatsu cuts him off. “You should know it’s my life and my body and what I do with it is my thing. But,” he looks down at the bandaged wrist, “I want to try. To get better.” To not leave him and the others behind. “Stronger, like you.” He never considered this option before, of being helped. Never thought someone would want to.
And for the first time ever since he caught Ichimatsu red handed, Karamatsu smiles sincerely, from his heart. “I’m glad.”
“There’s something, though,” Ichimatsu takes a deep breath and reaches into his pocket. He takes out the still-bloodied knife and holds it in his hand so Karamatsu sees. He understands right away and despite looking uncomfortable, almost as if he was responsible for Ichimatsu getting like this, he doesn’t run away from it. “Can you hold onto it for me? Until I’m… ready.” It’s a big favor to ask, a weight to carry.
Karamatsu accepts without hesitation. “Until you’re better.” He nods and takes it from Ichimatsu, grips the knife in his hand. It feels heavy, carrying all of Ichimatsu’s pain and suffering, the inexplicable anger that keeps hoarding up within him. But he’ll find a different output. A safe one.
It’s a bumpy ride but things get better. There are hiccups here and there, shed tears and sobbed apologies, hugs and whispers of support and love. They share private moments of whispered talks and stories they’d never tell their brothers, things only the two of them can understand and relate to.
He never takes the knife back. There’s no need to prove himself he can handle it again and it’d only bring bad memories with. Instead, Karamatsu gives him something different. Still going with the motive of weapons, he buys him a silver necklace with a small gun pendant, a blue and purple gems on each side. It’s tacky and shitty and probably ugly by normal standards but Ichimatsu wears it under the clothes non-stop. It reminds him of the journey, of how far they’ve come. That whenever he looks around, Karamatsu is always there for him.
He no longer fears tomorrow.