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Saburo holds his breath until his chest hurts; it distracts him, but not much, not for long. He gasps after reaching his limit, now feeling his lungs hurting as if the ache on the upper left side of his face wasn’t enough. He brings a hand up to the area, skimming his fingers shakily along the skin there.
It makes him hesitate. He was already reaching towards the doorknob but his hand found its way on his face instead, and Saburo wants to turn around and away from home— in fact, he would, if he didn’t have to report to Ichiro.
“Ichi-nii...” Saburo murmurs, heaving a sigh. If his brother saw him like this, Saburo worries, he’d think twice about ever giving him another mission that involved going outside when it isn’t school hours, at least not any time soon after this. He winces, less because of the huge bruise forming around his left eye, and more because of the way his stomach lurches at the idea of becoming useless again to this household, to Ichi-nii, to his brothers.
Saburo recounts, to stall and steer himself away from thoughts that make him anxious, that he was going to go to another convenience store to get some ice for this and treat it immediately, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing him; Ichiro is, understandably, well-known around this part of the neighborhood, well-loved in this part of town, because he’s just that great, and if anyone saw his youngest brother in this state there’d be rumors all over the place, and avoiding drawing that kind of attention to the Yamada name felt to Saburo more urgent than getting first aid.
The walk home was long and tedious, and now that he’s finally back, key to the front door slotted and turned, he really only needs to come in. So despite wavering, he goes on; carefully with his free hand, he turns the knob and nudges, retrieves his house key, and tosses his L-shaped keychain back into his bag, zipping it up after. He pushes, and the door swings open, too easily for Saburo’s current state of mind.
Lifting his hand from his face a centimeter, Saburo pulls on some of his hair, rearranging the black locks in the middle of his forehead towards the side he was trying to cover. He finds it’s nowhere near sufficient but tells himself to make do with it for now, sliding his hand back onto his face under his fringe, keeping it in place as he walks in.
The lock barely makes a sound as he closes the door behind him, and Saburo is light on his feet, as he always is, deft and unimposing—
“—Saburo, ya home already?”
Saburo freezes on the spot, hand accidentally clutching his face, livid pain shooting through him at the sound of Jiro’s voice. He’d been too preoccupied with the thought of Ichiro that he’d completely failed to think about Jiro, and that makes him feel bad for several reasons. For now it’s mainly because it was reckless to have come in here without a plan, Saburo scolds himself in his head— of course Jiro would be in the living room.
“D’ya get me a snack like I asked?”
Saburo spots Jiro raising an arm lazily, waving him over from a sofa that was facing away from the entrance. Despite his silence, Jiro had detected his presence, like a freaking psycho, and as he irrationally attempts to soothe the pain away with his fingers, he hears the faint tune of an opening song of an anime Jiro’s been watching thanks to Ichiro’s recommendation.
Tossing aside trivial matters like Jiro going full-on chuuni and pretending he has actual psychic powers, he thinks to make his escape now while Jiro is distracted. Saburo surveys his options in his head as fast as he can, and he chooses upstairs to Ichiro’s room instead of back outside. If anyone absolutely had to see this, among nosy neighbors, Jiro, and Ichiro, of course Saburo would pick his eldest brother.
Saburo spares one more glance at the back of the couch, watches Jiro stretch his arms above his head because he hasn’t moved from his marathon all day, then nods to himself before heading for the staircase. Choosing Ichi-nii never has to be justified, but, to justify not responding to Jiro Saburo just excuses that Jiro would never let him hear the end of it. If he got Ichi-nii on his side first, he at least wouldn’t have to deal with any bullshit from Jiro when he eventually finds out.
Jiro pauses his phone’s video player the second the opening is done and he’s finished stretching, whipping around on a whim. He catches a glimpse of the red cord hanging from Saburo’s hip before he completely disappeared into the hallway leading to the stairwell; he feels a vein pop in his temple for Saburo’s lack of response before he’s off the couch and on his feet, stomping after him: “Oi, Saburo!”
At that, Saburo scrambles to walk faster, making it three steps up the stairs before he feels a yank at the hood of his jacket. He’d heard Jiro’s footsteps after him, it wasn’t a surprise attack, yet he finds that it takes all his strength to resist it. He manages to only stumble back one step, calculating on the fly where Jiro would be behind him then throws his elbow backwards.
His aim wasn’t perfect but it was good enough. Jiro groans when Saburo’s elbow hit his gut, and Saburo’s hood was free.
Saburo sprints up several more steps into the staircase, and once he’s in midway where the light from the living room doesn’t reach well, he looks behind him for a second to check if Jiro was still tailing him.
He isn’t. Jiro is only standing motionless at the bottom, hand to his stomach, staring instead of glaring. “If you forgot to get me food, just say so, jerkface.”
The quip was almost rehearsed— Jiro is so used to this he didn’t even have to think before the words flew off the tip of his tongue. But there’s Saburo’s lack of response again, and out of his control, against his will, an unease rises in his chest, unnameable and difficult to grasp, much unlike the way Saburo was holding fast onto the handrail of the stairs.
“Saburo. What are you going up to Niichan’s room for?”
“…Huh?” Saburo finally speaks up, rolling his eyes at nothing and raising a leg to the next step. “None of your business, loser.”
“You didn’t even say were home,” Jiro mumbles as he realizes it, unfazed by Saburo’s diss and before he can stop himself he’s moving, rushing up the stairs to catch up to Saburo, each double-step punctuated with thoughts of how Saburo didn’t take his shoes off by the door like they were taught when they were little, how Saburo didn’t immediately hurl an insult at him when he saw him, and how now Saburo won’t even turn around to stick his tongue out at him and call him an idiot. At the least if he won’t face him he should say something twisted right about now, like ‘I wouldn’t have gotten you food even if I did remember.’
Again, Saburo heard Jiro’s steps, but he’s too slow, uncharacteristically slow— Jiro’s caught him by the shoulder and spun him around with so much force it almost seriously hurt, so much force that if he weren’t careful the both of them would be tumbling down the staircase together, but his grip is firm and was enough to arrest Saburo’s movements and keep him where he was.
Saburo had half a mind to yell and tell him off for grabbing him so roughly, but the other half of his mind concerned itself with Ichiro by default, and with how close to Ichiro’s room they were Saburo jerks his shoulder away from Jiro’s hold and settles for making a face at him. “The hell do you want—?”
“What’s that.”
Jiro’s tone was cool and collected and so unlike him that it disarmed Saburo, and he unconsciously repeats his words to try to make sense of them to himself, “What’s what?"
“That.” Jiro cocks his chin towards the hand on Saburo’s face before reaching out and wrapping his fingers around Saburo’s wrist.
“Wha—” It’s only now that Saburo registers that he was still covering half his face and he panics, awkwardly jerking his elbow without moving his hand to try to shake Jiro off.
“I’ll count to three. Show me or I’ll break your arm.”
“What? You’ve got to be kidding me—”
“I’m not playing, Saburo. One.”
“I’m not a child, and you’re not Ichi-nii. Like hell that’ll work on me—”
“Two.”
“It’s nothing—”
“Two and a half. I’m warning you, Saburo.”
“Stop counting, I said it’s noth—”
“Three.” It comes as a whisper, because Jiro is incredulous that Saburo didn’t give at two and a half, and out of distaste he narrows his eyes at him. “Oh you’ve done it now.”
Jiro’s voice sends a chill down Saburo’s spine and he tries to retract his wrist instinctively, because laughable as it would be any other time Jiro looked like he could snap his arm in half, like he was actually going to.
But he wasn’t going to. Jiro is stronger, imposing, and if he wanted to he could easily sprain Saburo’s wrist like he’d bluffed. Yet among the several conflicting feelings stirring in him none of them led to hurting Saburo, especially now that he’s visibly shaken. On a lesser note, he wasn’t about to get in trouble with Ichiro for actually hurting their youngest brother.
Jiro’s hand was cold around his wrist, Saburo notices belatedly only once he’s released him, because Jiro’s rings are freezing when his knuckles barely touch his face— the touch is so cold it startles Saburo into submission when Jiro swings his arm aside, making Saburo’s hand fall.
Jiro’s heart stops. In the dimness of the stairwell, he could see the left side of Saburo’s face swelling, red all over with tinges of a bluish purple at the edges that matched his eye, a discomforting color combination framing his brother’s otherwise soft face. He’d asked to see it but he wasn’t prepared.
Jiro’s head starts spinning. He’s always been squeamish about injury and to save himself from keeling over, his consciousness automatically brings him elsewhere, just not very far; it started with skinned knees and elbows and having to always make sure he has extra pockets to carry a box of band-aids, and it ended there. Only ever getting cartoon band-aids threatened Saburo into never getting injured unless he wanted Hello Kitty on his arms and legs— of course, Ichiro had talked them out of hating sweet things, even wore a hot pink band-aid across the bridge of his nose proudly, because what mattered more was that at the end of the days Saburo hadn’t grown out of his clumsiness just yet, Jiro was there to look out for him, reach into his pocket and hand him his pink gingham band-aids, put them on for him sometimes for good measure.
But this is different. The sentiment is useless and helps none at grounding Jiro because it doesn’t stir anything remotely fond in him, only unbridled discomfort and a much worse memory that prompted him into forming words despite how hard he’s finding it to breathe:
“…Who did this.”
Saburo’s eyes, uneven, widen— he was exposed so why isn’t Jiro making fun of him? He’d stared at him for so long without a word and now he’s muttering, so with effort, Saburo forces himself to reply: “What’s that? Can’t hear you, jerkface—”
“I asked,” Jiro raises his voice, back to a tone and expression familiar to Saburo, “Who. Fucking. Did this.”
It was a familiarity that made Saburo shrink back against the wall instead of answering him, a memory that burned itself into Saburo’s mind— this was the voice Jiro had used to call Niichan’s name, this was the look on his face when Ichiro had come home one night barely breathing from the last time he ever tried to reach out to Samatoki; Samatoki had instigated an entirely unprecedented rap battle, one Ichiro was nowhere near prepared for, one not even Ramuda or Jakurai could stop, but all the same Ichiro had refused to bring out his hypnosis mic and fight back, because he believed in his heart of hearts that there was reasoning with someone he was close to and respected like a brother, there just had to be—
It was a memory that bore deep into Saburo's heart and made him decide for himself once and for all that he was going to devote his entire life to his older brothers and love them with all of him, whatever form it took, service, banter, admiration, protectiveness—
Jiro was seething as he is now, eyes burning with rage and a horrible insecurity over the idea that there was nothing he could’ve done to prevent injury to those he loved and cared for most or even support them because he wasn’t there, and Hello Kitty band-aids won’t help, not even after.
Saburo’s heart clenches, and it hurts a thousand, million times worse than his exposed black eye— he was the one in pain here but Jiro’s the one on the verge of tears, of anger or of despair he wasn’t really sure, but Saburo swears he could sense both, hear it when Jiro grits his teeth.
“Jiro-n—” Saburo utters, and Jiro flinches, he flinches and he’s so easy to read: now of all times, he doesn’t want to be addressed as the older brother, and Saburo catches himself and corrects, “Jiro.”
“What?” Jiro recovers enough to sneer, “Do I have to count to three again before you answer me?”
“Huh—?” Saburo squints at him, “It didn't work the first time, are you an idiot—!?”
“One—!”
“Listen to people when they’re talking!”
“Two!”
“Keep your voice down, Ichi-nii’s gonna—”
“Two and a ha—”
“Ugh, I ran into a pole!” Saburo yells, glancing hastily upstairs and covering his face again with his hand. “There, you happy—?!”
“Haaah!?” Jiro clicks his tongue so hard it hurts, because on top of Saburo’s attempting to hide this from him to begin with, on top of having to be forced to show this to him to boot— was Saburo lying now, too?
Saburo feels his face heat up under his palm, realizing what he’d blurted out, and that he’d blurted it out at the threat of a count. Saburo internally debates insisting whether he has to explain the entire situation—
He was rushing home excited to show Ichiro all the information he’s gathered after going above and beyond to verify it, starting an outline draft of his report on his phone, literally jogging with his eyes on his screen and not watching where he was going. His first reaction had been to make sure his phone’s note app didn’t close when he dropped his phone and fell on his bag, and out of relief he’d continued his way home without a care. Once he double-checked his final draft and could focus on other things, like fantasizing about receiving praise and a few head-pats from Ichi-nii if he were lucky, he’d felt a throbbing in his head and caught sight of his reflection on a shop window a few blocks from their house.
Saburo sighs, “Why don’t you believe me—”
“Why—” Jiro snaps, “Why do you keep forgetting you can rely on me, too!?”
Saburo knows, they were both used to Jiro not listening. Saburo also knows, that the second Jiro retaliated, unconvinced, should’ve been his moment of victory, because it meant he’d said all he had to and it wouldn’t be his fault if Jiro was too stubborn to believe it. He could even leave it at this and back out.
But Jiro, whether he knows it or not— though he probably doesn’t know, he never knows— is wearing his heart on his sleeve and it cried out of sheer care and Saburo has to stay, he has to stay with his brother right now. It’s easy to choose between committing to explaining that humiliation over letting Jiro ever believe he’d failed to protect him as his brother.
“I wanted to come home as soon as possible. I was careless. That’s all there is to it,” Saburo asserts steadily, his tone void of symptoms of his twisted excuse for a personality, of any teasing. He’s aware there’s only one way to truly convince Jiro and he wishes he could think twice about it but he doesn’t even want to. He breathes, “I’m telling the truth, Jiro-nii.”
The doubt from Jiro’s face drains instantly upon hearing how Saburo had called him, and it’s replaced by a distorted relief. No one had laid a finger on Saburo, and that alone allows all the tension to leave his body.
In the same moment, Saburo finds himself relaxing, and he shrugs. “You know, throwing fists in this day and age is practicallyillegal here, don’t you ever use your brain?” Saburo smirks. “What an idiot you are, Jiro.”
“I—” Jiro gapes, relief quickly mixing with irritation, “Idiot!? Who ya callin' an idiot, idiot? You’re the one who ran into a pole, you goddamn dumbass!”
Saburo huffs once to jeer at Jiro and slips past him while he’s at it, padding swiftly down the stairs.
“Oi!” Jiro yells, running after him, grabbing his yellow hoodie again and tackling him to the ground at the end of the stairwell, his cap flying off his head. “I was worried about you, gimme back my feelings!”
“Hey—” Saburo pushes his palms against Jiro's chest, “No wrestling, I’m injured, you monster!”
“Wrestling?” Jiro withdraws, “Who said anything about that?”
Before Saburo can turn that over in his head, he sees Jiro stretching his fingers towards his stomach. “You wouldn't.”
Jiro grins wickedly and grabs the leg of Saburo’s pants before he could turn around and crawl away, pulling him towards himself as he crawls forward in kind, meeting Saburo in the middle, digging his fingers in Saburo’s stomach and wiggling them.
“Cu— oi, Jiro, cut it out!” Saburo manages, his voice cracking, breaking when he feels Jiro’s hands slip under the open zip of his yellow hoodie and tickle him through his white undershirt.
Jiro is relentless and revels in Saburo’s fits of annoyed but uncontrollable giggles— Saburo had put him through a distressing time and this was going to be his revenge.
He sorts through his memories with Saburo quickly, past putting a bright pink band-aid over a scraped palm when Saburo learned to slide his hands on the ground when he fell to soften the impact, and Ichiro’s warm hands holding theirs after that to continue on their trip to the convenience store to try new snack flavors— to where he remembers are Saburo’s weakest spots in these kinds of fights.
One is the spot behind his right ear, so Jiro reaches towards it with the hand that wasn’t under Saburo’s jacket, but Saburo turns his face away, and Jiro’s fingers land on his bruise and he darts his hand away, “Oops, sorry, sorry.”
“It’s okay—” Saburo starts, then takes it back in the same breath, “Actually, get off!”
Jiro ignores the latter half of what he’d just said, sliding his hand up from Saburo’s stomach to the side of his ribs and tickles him there, another weak spot.“This is for not listening to me at three the first time!”
“You—” Saburo kicks, “—think I’m gonna apologize? Stupid Jiro! Stupid J—”
Jiro brings his other hand down to one of Saburo’s knees, his last weak spot, scratching his nails over the cloth of his pants plainly, and it’s enough to make Saburo yelp, high and embarrassing—
“Jiro-nii!”
Saburo’s knee jerks forward, hitting Jiro in the gut again and Jiro coils up, “Oi!” He puts his hands over his stomach, his pain doubling from when Saburo had elbowed him earlier, too. “If you’re gonna fight back, fight back fair, you asshole, it’s a tickle fight god—”
“You guys done?”
“Ichi-nii—” “Niichan—”
Ichiro was standing at the top of the stair case, arms crossed over his chest. “Hm? What’d I tell you guys about horsing around?” He shakes his head, pretend-condescending, skipping every other step down.
“Niichan, it was my fault—”
“Jiro—?”
“Up.” Ichiro uncrosses his arms and offers his younger brothers a hand each.
Saburo and Jiro take Ichiro’s hands, lending themselves to their eldest brother’s strength as he hoists them both back on their feet with zero effort.
Saburo is quick to dust himself off, taking his shoes off and putting them by the door. “I got home a while ago,” he says, taking his phone out from his pocket as he continues, “I got all the information you wanted, Ichi-nii, I just went out to fact-check—”
“Saburo,” Ichiro interrupts lowly.
“Y—yes?”
“Your eye, can you c’mere and show me?”
Saburo doesn’t hesitate this time, unfailingly obedient to Ichiro.
Once Saburo’s stood in front of him, Ichiro reaches out towards him, fingers feather-light as they touch Saburo’s black eye, inspecting. “Your report can wait. Let’s get you some ice for this first, okay?” Ichiro’s hand slides down to hold Saburo’s and lead him off to the kitchen. “Better heal it fast, I already have a new mission for you.”
Saburo nods enthusiastically before following Ichiro, grasping his hand tightly. The next thing he does, he does out of habit: he turns around to hold it over Jiro.
But Jiro only went to sit down on the first step of the stairs and rearrange his cap on his head after picking it up off the floor. He doesn’t even care. Saburo catches him looking at Ichiro and traces his gaze, seeing them share a look that Saburo couldn’t comprehend.
Saburo thinks he should feel iffy about it but then he sees Jiro smiling, looking reassured, sure of himself, his usual self, so without looking any more into it, he lets it go.
Ichiro had smiled at him— after all, Jiro only got his power to sense quiet presence from him— and he’d heard everything, took no longer than a second of the faintest and most gentle of smiles to let Jiro know he was proud of him, to let him know that he knows that regardless of how much he picks on Saburo he would protect him with his life (he still carried Hello Kitty band-aids with him in the pocket of the blue flannel he always has tied around his waist). It was something Ichiro didn’t have to teach him; it was something Jiro learned on his own and resolved to fulfilling by himself, and a mutual feeling between them as older brothers. Saburo wouldn’t understand, genius as he is, even if he tried.
“Ah—” Saburo slips his hand free from Ichiro’s grasp.
“What is it, Saburo?”
Wordlessly, Saburo unzips his bag and feels around for a box, fishing it out and tossing it onto Jiro’s lap.
Jiro looked down at it, a crushed box of new limited-edition Pocky, champagne flavor.
“Hey, Jiro.” Saburo calls as he retakes Ichiro’s hand, turning away from Jiro and wishing uselessly that he didn’t blush up to his ears whenever he opened up. But since Jiro hadn’t really laughed at him for walking into a pole, Saburo supposed that the worst was over. “Jiro-nii. I didn’t forget.”