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Ichimatsu is quiet and weird. Sometimes he is loud and weird, depending on how painful Karamatsu is being, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that he’s quiet and weird and likes hiding places and when you grow up quiet and weird and like hiding places you notice things.
Amusing things, like the reason their clothes sometimes come out of the wash slightly glittery is because all Karamatsu’s glitter caked guitar picks gather at the bottom of the wash basket.
Useful things, like where all eight of the house’s naughty magazine stashes are.
Little, inconsequential things like where the lost socks end up, the different rhythms of everyone charging up and down the stairs, the way the light falls through the slats of the airing cupboard.
And little, not so inconsequential things. These are harder to define. Sometimes they’re feelings and Ichimatsu doesn’t do feelings so he can safely ignore them, but sometimes it’s more and that’s when the world begins to wobble.
It’s glances and glances snubbed over meals. It’s crumpled train tickets in the waste paper basket to and from places nobody had any business visiting. It’s half heard private phone calls ending questionably. Questionably because he never asked, not because he doesn’t know what he heard. Love you. Ambiguous yet obvious yet vague enough to be pushed away as niggling doubt. Questionable because after second guessing himself so much he now longer knows what he heard.
The first rule of being a quiet, weird child who notices things is not to ask questions. If you ask questions, they might be answered. You might not like the answers. Ichimatsu knows this growing up so keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t ask where his mother had been when she comes back late. He doesn’t ask his dad who he was talking to on the phone. He doesn’t ask his brothers, “Guys? Do you think mom and dad are normal?” He just accepts that they are, and if they weren’t then they were damn well going to act like it anyway.
Not asking questions is easy. Ichimatsu has always known that. As he gets older he finally understands the phrase ‘the elephant in the room.’ Of course it’s hard to acknowledge it when it’s been stood there eighteen odd years and nobody has mentioned it once. Everyone shuffles around it like it was just a normal part of daily life so he does too. Not asking questions is easy.
The second rule of being a quiet, weird child who notices things is not to even have suspicions, but that bit is harder. Suspicions like to pop up in the most innocuous circumstances and buzz around your head until they’re confirmed. If there’s one thing suspicions like more than popping up it’s being confirmed.
Ichimatsu does his best to avoid confirming them. His brothers don’t seem to notice anything wrong and they’re not the sort to keep quiet about anything so it must be fine, right? But then his brothers weren’t quiet, weird kids who grew into quiet, weird adults.
Surely they hear the fights? The arguments, in low voices so all he can follow is the rhythm and rise and fall of emotions that continue until the early hours. The faint back and forth that keeps him awake, on edge, inexplicably afraid to move, wanting to wake Karamatsu next to him but unable to because what if that makes things worse?
The third rule of being a quiet and weird anybody who notices things – don’t make things worse.
Nobody mentions the fights. His brothers wake slowly as the sun streams in and he doesn’t ask how they slept because he doesn’t want to hear it was badly, but they’re such whiners there’s no way they wouldn’t mention it if they knew. His parents seem jovial and well rested. Everyone’s fine.
It’s like this every time. As his mother ruffles his already unruly hair and comments on how dark the rings under his eyes are, Ichimatsu begins to wonder if he’s going mad.
The fights keep him awake several nights a week. He thinks he might be imagining them and tries sticking his fingers in his ears. Sometimes the noise stops. Sometimes it doesn’t.
Every time he tries to will up the courage to step out into the landing and shuffle up to the door, just so he can hear what’s really happening but his limbs are heavy and reluctant to rock the boat. What if he was caught? What if he’s right?
Don’t make things worse.
He longs to wake Karamatsu, hear his brother’s painful, kind, comforting voice but the spill of hot tears on his cheeks stops him. He angrily rubs them away. Why’s he crying? Nothing’s wrong. If he wakes Karamatsu then he’ll just alarm his big brother.
Don’t make things worse.
He decides it doesn’t matter if he’s right or not. As long as nothing changes, who cares? He tries to push away suspicions and doubts and focus on what’s in front of him. His brothers. His solid, ever present, demonic, irritating, stupid, lazy, dependable brothers. He’s got them.
Except – your parents are meant to be there, always. Friends and lovers and even siblings may drop out of your life but if the solid bedrock your life is built on is shaken then who can rely on anything anymore?
After so many years of pushing it away, fear finally creeps into Ichimatsu’s heart. He tries to search for the reason why things could go wrong, he knows there must be loads, but it always comes down to something he did. He’s a trash person after all. It must be his fault. At night when he hears the voices his mind calls back every misstep of the week. Which was it? When he shouted at Karamatsu? When he drank the last of the milk? Did he fail to clean up ESP Kitty’s pawprints?
Don’t make things worse. But what if he already has?
It’s probably because he hasn’t moved out he decides, but can’t bring himself to go. If the end is coming, why hurry it? At least the others are happy for now.
The others. How would they react? He can’t tell them. That would make things worse. Maybe force his parents’ hand.
Don’t make things worse.
Where would they go? Would they be scattered? He wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet now and then but total peace and total quiet… The thought makes him shiver.
Maybe their parents would keep them. But who? And how would they decide? An interview? Would they compete? He doesn’t really have any redeeming features. Maybe that would persuade Mom. Jyuushimatsu doesn’t either, but he’s good at throwing. That has to count for something. What would the others do? Something stupid, knowing them.
And what if it couldn’t be decided? What then? A team draw? A vote? A fight? None of these outcomes sounded good.
He’d just have to stop it ever happening. Once he decided that, Ichimatsu felt a little better. The secret was still heavy inside but at least he had something to do about it. He wouldn’t tell the others, he wouldn’t even tell the cats. He wouldn’t want them to worry about him. Besides, he might be wrong. He hoped. He would get his brothers to try and behave for once and maybe then their parents wouldn’t fight and it would all be okay and they could hide from the world here forever.
Then again, if they proved they could be reasonable human beings something else might happen.
Don’t make things worse.
It’s hard work, not making things worse.