Chapter Text
The buzz of Shuuichi’s phone against the hollow wood of his desk is jarring, and it startles him awake with a flinch. He sits up straight, eyes scanning over the classroom, where no one seems to have been disturbed by the Snapchat notification noise. Even his history teacher hasn’t missed a beat; he continues droning on about something Shuuichi had stopped listening to a long time ago, so he allows himself to relax and flip over his phone.
As he silences it, he reads over the new notification: the name Rantarou blinks up at him, and he unlocks his phone to check the Snapchat with a confused frown.
Only the left half of his friend’s face is visible; he’s crossing his eyes — eye, Shuuichi supposes — and he’s wearing a jovial smile, a peace sign half obscured by his earthy green hair. He can see his teacher in the background, frozen mid-word.
Shuuichi’s eyes scan over the caption: we’re going out tonight.
And. Well. Shuuichi is not a fan of that idea at all. He has homework tonight — and he’s going to ignore the fact that he’s currently tuning out a lecture in a class he has homework in — and he knows that Rantarou’s dads will not be super into that idea, so he taps a few times until he has a blurry picture of his desk and has attached a sad face as the caption.
Shuuichi idly looks at Rantarou as he receives the notification, and uses his hand to mask an amused smile as he watches his best friend pose for a new picture. It appears on his phone a few seconds later; Rantarou pouting into the camera, totally oblivious to their teacher, whose eyes just barely missed making contact with the camera itself.
i want to win my little brother a prize at the arcade!
Shuuichi rolls his eyes, angling his camera down to snap a picture of his shoes. i’m not your little brother.
The next image he receives from Rantarou is him pouting even more pronouncedly, cheek resting on his fist. you’re littler than me, and my parents have custody of you, so you’re my little brother.
“Saihara.”
Shuuichi is readying to send another award-worthy picture of his shoes when he suddenly freezes up at the sound of his name. Immediately feeling himself begin to perspire, Shuuichi struggles for a few moments to find the will to look upward; when he does, he sees his teacher staring down at him with his arms loosely crossed, a long-suffering frown on his face. The eyes of every person in the class are on him, and he nearly drops his phone as his hands become slick with sweat.
“As much as I’m sure whoever you’re messaging,” his teacher’s eyes cut across to Rantarou, who smiles good-naturedly, “loves receiving Snapchats of your shoes, it can wait until I’m finished teaching, no?”
Shuuichi nods furiously, his hat nearly flying off of his head. He pulls it further down as his teacher sighs.
“Good. Now, to get us back on track, can you tell me anything I’ve said at all today?”
Instead of answering, Shuuichi drags the visor of his hat down even more, shielding himself from eye contact entirely. It’s unbearably silent for a few long beats. Finally, his teacher clicks his tongue.
“After class please, Saihara.” A pause. “And you, too.”
Shuuichi peeks out from underneath his hat to watch as his teacher’s gaze lingers on Rantarou for a few moments before moving back to the board, where he underlines a name Shuuichi doesn’t recognize.
“Now, getting back to the betrayal of the Goddess of Vitality—”
Shuuichi’s phone lights up with another message from Rantarou. He wipes his hands several times on his pants, lays his head back down on the desk, and presses his thumb against his phone until it recognizes his sweaty fingerprint and unlocks.
From his phone Rantarou smiles up at him in what would be an unattractive manner on anyone else, but it mostly comes off as endearing. The caption on the picture asks Shuuichi if he’s alright. Quick as he can he snaps a blurry picture of his shoes, sending back a dejected i’m fine, just hate being called on.
Rantarou’s next response mirrors Shuuichi’s habit of sending shoe pictures; the caption of maybe you should pay more attention! is backdropped by a shot of Rantarou’s legs. Shuuichi rolls his eyes; neither of them are very keen on paying attention in their shared history class, so Rantarou has no place teasing him. He tells him as much with the next message.
i know plenty about what’s going on. the goddess of music is terrible, and you shouldn’t mess with the goddess of vitality.
Shuuichi frowns. there’s no way you heard all of that!
Rantarou sends him one last message, a picture of himself winking, before they stop altogether. When Shuuichi peeks up a few minutes later, he notices Rantarou casually playing a game on his phone, oblivious to the increasingly-exasperated glares their teacher is sending him. Shuuichi, though not doing anything nearly as overt, finds his attention caught away from the lecture at the front of the classroom until the bell signaling the end of the school day rings, jarring him out of his daydreaming.
As the class clears he stays obediently in his seat, and he can only fondly roll his eyes as he catches Rantarou — ostentatious as ever, sporting designer clothing and dyed green hair — attempting to retreat along with the crowd. Their teacher calls his name, and Rantarou turns, utterly shameless as he laughs it off.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Hinata — what could you possibly want with poor Shuuichi and I?”
At his name Shuuichi stands, shuffling his belongings together and slinging his backpack over his shoulder nervously. Mr. Hinata rolls his eyes and motions them both towards his desk. Rantarou lightly bumps him as they move, flashing him a thumbs up before settling into an easy stance next to Shuuichi’s own tense one.
Shuuichi watches him warily. Rantarou smiles, his entire being unabashedly oozing his usual carefree attitude. One hand rests on his hip, his elbow gently touching Shuuichi; the other holds his bag over his shoulder lazily, watching their teacher with half-lidded eyes. He shoots Shuuichi a wink over his shoulder, and yes, while having Rantarou by his side during this does make him feel somewhat better, Shuuichi can’t push past the discomfort he feels at Rantarou being so casual and seeming to almost…tease Mr. Hinata.
“Actually,” their teacher says to Rantarou, watching him with wary green eyes, “all I have to say to you is how close I am to calling your parents, Togami.”
Rantarou laughs, apparently unconcerned. “To be completely honest, I’m not sure how happy my dads would be to hear from you.”
Mr. Hinata rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the door. “Goodbye, Togami.”
After waving good-naturedly to Mr. Hinata and promising Shuuichi to wait for him outside the classroom Rantarou saunters out, leaving just him and Mr. Hinata. With all of the attention being focused on him, Shuuichi begins to squirm.
It’s not that Shuuichi doesn’t like Mr. Hinata, or that he’s particularly afraid of him; on the contrary, he’s probably one of the nicer teachers Shuuichi has ever had. With the amount of times Shuuichi has moved schools, he’s had his fair share of teachers, and not all of them were so understanding of his various…issues, in and out of the classroom. Coupled with the fact that it’s so hard to get a feel for each new teacher, each new class, each new batch of classmates, he knows he’s not an easy person to deal with. Sometimes it’s hard to even find a reason to get acclimated when he moves around so much — and, really, he’s averaging out to almost a new school every year — and it’s just a lot to deal with on top of everything else.
'Everything else' being a whole host of things really very out of his control, but his not paying attention in class: that’s totally Shuuichi’s fault. His face feels hot; he does this way too much, the being-too-distracted-to-pay-proper-attention thing, but he’s never been held back after class by Mr. Hinata before. Is he in real trouble now? Is he going to be yelled at? Is he going to ask to talk to Shuuichi’s mom? Shuuichi knows it’s Rantarou’s dads listed on his contact sheet, but—
“Shuuichi?” There’s a hand on his shoulder. Shuuichi sucks in a deep breath, glances up to meet his teacher’s eyes. The look on his face makes him squirm all the more. “Are you alright?”
“I’m — I’m fine.” Shuuichi pulls the visor of his hat over his eyes, suddenly embarrassed at his bout of silence.
“I…Saihara, you’re not in trouble, so don’t worry about that.” Mr. Hinata sighs, leaning to rest against his desk. Shuuichi shuffles from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. His teacher smiles, expression gentle, running a hand through his hair awkwardly.
“You do worry me a little bit, you know.” His gaze on Shuuichi sharpens a touch, and he suddenly feels as though he’s being critically assessed. Shuuichi scratches at his neck, anxious. “Is everything alright? At home, at school?”
“What, ah — wh-what do you mean?”
“Well,” Mr. Hinata looks a little uncomfortable for a moment, “I am…familiar with some aspects of your situation. Your home arrangement, your history of moving schools, the, uh, reasons for that. I guess I’m asking if things are okay here.”
He feels himself go red with mortification at the mention of his moving schools. Looking down at his shoes and the floor, he sort of wishes he could melt into it. “No, things are, uhm…they’re o-okay here.”
“And how about at home?” Shuuichi looks up abruptly; Mr. Hinata goes red at his own words, and immediately puts his hands out, defensive. “N-Not that I’m trying to assume anything! Really. I don’t doubt that Togami is a good friend to you. I just…I worry, like I said. I don’t see you interacting with people other than him very often, is all.”
“Sorry,” is all that Shuuichi says, not sure of how else to respond. Mr. Hinata sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He shakes his head, then fixes Shuuichi with an odd look.
“No, I’m sorry. I can tell I’m making you uncomfortable.” Mr. Hinata moves behind his desk and sits in his chair, the smile he aims up at Shuuichi kind. “Have a good rest of your day, Saihara. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you later, sir.” He wastes no time escaping the room, more than ready to leave school behind for the day. As he retreats he looks for Rantarou and, upon not seeing him, chooses to wait tucked in next to a row of lockers, thumbing at his phone where it rests in his pocket impatiently.
Shuuichi is by default on high alert when alone in school hallways, but the sight of empty floor space before him offers him some comfort, and he allows himself to relax a bit. He stands up straight for a moment, rolls his shoulders against the ache of a chronically sore back, and glances around again for any sign of Rantarou. When none appears, he finds his mind wandering to his conversation with Mr. Hinata.
It’s terrible enough operating with the knowledge that Rantarou and his parents are privy to the details of the intense bullying Shuuichi has been faced with a good portion of his life, but something about a teacher he only met a matter of months ago knowing as well makes the memory of his own low points all the heavier.
The moving schools, the bullying, they were issues even before his mom died, but after the fact, well…
Freshly traumatized by his mother’s out-of-nowhere death, newly started on hormone blockers, and facing the terrifying reality of heading into the world with no remaining blood relatives made for easy (if exceedingly cruel) targets for people his age to exploit to the fullest. At first the jokes made at his expense were relatively simple in nature — he was jumpy, he was prone to acne, he didn’t have a dad or a nice house or new toys like the rest of his classmates.
But then his mom died. And he went to live with his best friend, who was something of a celebrity at whatever school he ended up at. And his new guardians made the mistake of disclosing Shuuichi’s status as trans to the first school he transferred to after his life's upending. And it got so much worse.
It’s better at some schools than others. But he never stays at any single school for long. And neither, in that regard, has Rantarou; even before Shuuichi moved in with him, he always insisted to his dads that he follow Shuuichi to his new schools. He and Rantarou have moved schools something like six times in as many years, and where they’re settled now…
It’s nice. It’s not a far commute from the house, and people mostly just leave him and Rantarou alone now that the novelty of having a famous person and his less-famous adoptive sibling in their class has worn off. Things are unexciting, but that suits Shuuichi just fine.
Though he gets the feeling, sometimes, that perhaps Rantarou vies for more than what Shuuichi is able to handle.
“There you are.” Rantarou steps out of the bathroom a few yards down the hallway and waves, looking as always delighted to see him. His expression droops some when he sees the — presumably cloudy — look on Shuuichi’s face, and when he makes his way over to Shuuichi he throws an arm around his shoulders, leading them both towards the exit, eyes on his phone.
“You didn’t get yelled at too much, did you?”
“No,” Shuuichi replies, squinting against the bright sunlight as they step outside the school. “I think there’s a gossip circle about me among the teachers, though.”
“If there’s a teacher support group about either of us, it’s definitely for me,” Rantarou counters with a laugh, slipping his phone into his pants pocket.
“That’s true. You’re the only one of us who plays Cookie Run in class, anyways.”
“And you listen excitedly to my play-by-plays on Snapchat, so you’re hardly innocent, you know.” They begin down the steps towards their awaiting ride. “But seriously, why do you think the teachers are talking about you?”
Shuuichi sighs, fidgeting with the visor of his hat. “Mr. Hinata, ah, knows about how much I move schools. And asked me about it. And I guess it just…doesn’t feel great to be reminded of it, when things have been okay so far here.”
“I’ll lecture him next time I see him, make sure he doesn’t bother my little brother again.” Rantarou squeezes Shuuichi’s cheek teasingly before circling around the car and climbing into the backseat. Huffing, Shuuichi pulls open the door on his side of the limo and settles in himself.
“I’m not your little brother. And I think that’s unnecessary.” He clicks his seatbelt into place, and gives Rantarou an unimpressed look. “Speaking of unnecessary, did you have to get the limo to pick us up?”
“It’s fun.”
“It’s tacky. And obnoxious.” Shuuichi makes sheepish eye contact with the driver. “Ah, no offense?”
Rantarou chuckles, waving off Shuuichi’s embarrassment with a smile. “Hey, don’t make such a long face. To make you feel better, I’ll win you a prize and get you something sweet at the arcade tonight, okay?”
Shuuichi groans at the mention of sneaking out, flopping back against the seat. Rantarou chuckles again, patting Shuuichi on the shoulder, before shifting away and beginning a conversation with the driver.
Shuuichi contents himself to watch his friend silently, uninterested in interjecting into the conversation. As he observes him, he quietly catalogs Rantarou’s behavior.
He shines with effortless confidence. Every movement, every word out of his mouth, every carefree laugh and contented smile boasts what is one of his many strengths: his seemingly endless supply of self-assuredness. Rantarou is one of the most easy-going people Shuuichi has ever met; is that where his confidence stems from?
He’s confident, and he’s carefree, and he’s languid, and he’s upbeat, and he’s sort of Shuuichi’s hero. He’s so different from Shuuichi; from his insecurity, his anxiousness, his uptightness, his constant undercurrent of depression.
It’s sort of a wonder he holds any interest in being around Shuuichi at all, for all that they’re different.
Rantarou looks over, meeting Shuuichi’s eyes for a moment. His friend smiles, reclining back against his seat and slinging an arm over Shuuichi’s shoulders before continuing his conversation with the driver.
Warmth floods Shuuichi’s chest.
Despite their differences, despite their near polar opposite at times tendencies, despite how many leagues above Shuuichi he is, Rantarou never fails to show him kindness. Never fails to be the best friend Shuuichi could ever ask for. Rantarou always has Shuuichi’s back, is always the best friend and brother that Shuuichi needs; he always has been, ever since the first day they met.
Despite his issues with expressing it a lot of the time, Shuuichi hopes that he is as good a best friend as Rantarou deserves.
Shuuichi doesn’t notice that they’re home until the low hum of the engine dies, and Rantarou is pulling away and pushing open the car door. Shuuichi exits on his side, smiling fondly as Rantarou presses a generous tip into the hand of the driver, and motions him forward.
As he and Rantarou enter the house, Shuuichi marvels — not for the first nor the last time — at the grandeur of the home he has come to live in. It’s not what he would call necessarily homey; as someone who spent the first decade of his life living in a modest little apartment with only his mother, he still finds it uncomfortable to walk through the house’s sweeping halls and spend too much time on the marble stairs that he’s frankly terrified of dirtying.
Rantarou, as Shuuichi has observed many times, does not share this same fear; he moves towards the kitchen with his shoes still on, not pausing for Shuuichi to toe his own off. When he catches up with his friend, he finds him stealing a cookie off of a warm tray resting on the oven as his father wraps up a phone call.
Shuuichi accepts the cookie he’s offered, and politely waits until Rantarou's dad hangs up the phone to speak.
“Hi, Makoto.”
“Hey, dad.”
Makoto smiles at the both of them, wrinkling his nose a bit at the stolen cookies. “Hey, guys. How was school?”
Before Shuuichi can meekly mention his meeting with Mr. Hinata, Rantarou cuts in, leaning against the granite island. “Uneventful. Would’ve much rather been home baking cookies.” His eyes are alight with something that Shuuichi knows only means trouble as he appraises his father's baking.
“More like eating them.” Makoto scoops up the tray as Rantarou reaches for another, tucking it onto the counter behind him. “Besides, I think it’s more likely that you’d be causing mischief rather than baking cookies with your dad.”
“Me, cause mischief?” Shuuichi smothers a smirk at the faux-confused look Rantarou adopts. Rantarou kicks him lightly, out of Makoto's sight. “I’m not the problem child.”
Makoto laughs. “Are you implying the problem child is Shuuichi?”
“Of course not. Shuuichi’s a good boy.” This time, it’s Shuuichi who kicks Rantarou. “Byakuya’s the problem child.”
“Don’t call your father by his first name,” Makoto warns gently, though he's still smiling — this song and dance isn't new to any of them. “Oh, speaking of. He won’t be home until late tonight.”
“Again?” Rantarou’s smile dips around the corners ever so slightly. “Is something wrong?”
Makoto shakes his head, pulling a soda out of the fridge. “You both know how it is at work. Someone’s misplaced something important, and your father is going to throw a fit until it’s fixed.”
Rantarou’s smile returns, and he leans towards Shuuichi conspiratorially. “Tell me again how he’s not the problem child again?”
“Go,” Makoto implores them both, shooing them out of the kitchen. “Stop being mean to your father when he can’t defend himself. He’ll get all pouty.”
“Sounds like him.” They both watch as Makoto heads back into the kitchen, phone in hand. Rantarou steers them both towards the stairs. “Hey, Shuuichi, let’s play Smash.”
They play Smash. They play until the not-quite-summer sun dips below the horizon, and they play until Makoto orders takeout for dinner, and they play until Byakuya doesn’t come home (again), and they play until Makoto, voice tired, implores the two of them to go to bed.
Shuuichi is more than happy to oblige; the call of his bed has been tempting him for hours now. He doesn’t get the chance, however; just as he’s folded up his binder and is about to climb under his covers there’s a knock at the door, Rantarou appearing a few moments later, looking much more dressed up than Shuuichi’s choice of a hoodie and checkered pajama pants.
“I’m going to win you something,” Rantarou declares, and Shuuichi flops onto his bed, groaning.
“If we get caught your dads will kill us.”
“Would I let anything happen to my little brother?” Shuuichi grasps around for a moment before his hands wrap around a pillow, and he throws it forcefully in Rantarou’s direction. The laugh he gets in response tells him he wasn’t even close to hitting his mark.
Rantarou tosses the pillow back to him a moment later, leaving the room with a request that Shuuichi put some actual clothes on. As the door shuts Shuuichi sits up, rolling his eyes at this whole situation, but getting up to change anyways. If he’s going to be made to go, he’ll make his friend keep his promise to get him something good.
A few minutes later he emerges from his room changed into his most casual attire: a slightly-less-slept-in hoodie, a pair of dark jeans he’s had since he was about thirteen, and his practically new sneakers. His hair isn’t brushed, and he hasn’t bothered to put his binder back on; he knows where Rantarou intends to take them, and there won’t be much of a crowd to judge Shuuichi’s fashion sense, so he makes himself not worry about it too much.
He shuts the door to his room as quietly as he can and begins down the stairs where he knows Rantarou is waiting, having gone through this a few times before. As he passes through the foyer his eyes catch on the clock — nearing midnight, god is he going to be dead tired tomorrow — before moving through the kitchen towards the back door where Rantarou waits, wallet in hand.
Shuuichi’s led out through the back door without a word, and after a few minutes of maneuvering over the large fencing the house boasts they’re on their way, shoes lightly slapping the pavement as they walk. Rantarou hums quietly as they move, one earbud in ear, the other spilling tinny music into the crisp air around them. Shuuichi wishes he’d had the foresight to bring his own earbuds, but it’s not a long walk to the arcade, only a few blocks, so he doesn’t concern himself too much with the thought.
The trip is uneventful until the foot traffic on the sidewalk gets clogged up for a reason Shuuichi can’t immediately see. Rantarou, too, seems confused, pulling his earbud out of his ear to ask Shuuichi what’s going on.
They find out a few minutes later when the mini crowd is finally granted passage across the upcoming crosswalk, the sight of a nasty car wreck coming into full view as they move. As soon as Shuuichi realizes what he’s looking at he forcefully pulls his gaze away, letting Rantarou’s body block his view as he moves past as quickly as possible, now wishing he had his earbuds so he could drown out the growing sound of sirens.
“You okay?” Rantarou asks once they’re out of view of the wreck and an ambulance has flown by. Shuuichi manages a smile, appreciative of his friend’s kindness.
“Yeah.” Rantarou mirrors his smile, and affectionately flicks Shuuichi’s cowlick before facing forward again and continuing their walk in silence. Shuuichi allows his bravado to deflate after a moment.
He’s lucky it’s an okay night. There were some days where the mention of a car crash, even a minor one, could turn an entire week sour. Could put him out of commission entirely until he could calm himself down again.
Shuuichi feels himself frown. Hm. Maybe dwelling on the trauma he has surrounding his mother’s death isn’t the most productive way to spend his night.
“Shuuichi?” Rantarou’s voice sounds farther away than it should. Shuuichi blinks a few times, turns around, and finds him waiting at the entrance to the arcade, a contemplatively concerned look on his face. Shuuichi rolls his eyes at himself for just walking off, and follows Rantarou inside.
His spirits lift exponentially once any idle thoughts in his mind are killed by the sensory overload the arcade offers. Between the multitudes of noises being thrown around the dark room, the neon lights illuminating the area like someone’s taken highlighters to the walls, and the vast collection of claw machines available for Shuuichi to waste his money on, he simply doesn’t have the capacity to worry over anything but the present. And that’s good for someone like him.
He’s not sure how long exactly he and Rantarou stay at the arcade, but when they’re starting their walk back home, Shuuichi can hardly keep his heavy eyelids open and his arms secured around the stuffed Bewear plush Rantarou had scored him after his many jackpot wins.
All Shuuichi had been able to get Rantarou with his collection of tickets was a rubber duck wearing sunglasses, a pair of cheap matching braided bracelets (one of which Rantarou immediately tied around Shuuichi’s wrist), and a few pieces of assorted candy.
Rantarou, however, didn’t seem to mind the trade off; in their last few minutes before they were kicked out the arcade, he insisted Shuuichi pose for his Snapchat story with the stuffed animal Rantarou won for him, as well as take an egregious amount of selfies showing off their matching bracelets that could not have cost more than about twenty-five cents, combined.
Nevertheless, Shuuichi leaves the arcade feeling sort of deliriously content, hugging the Bewear doll close and fidgeting with his bracelet. He only becomes all the more happy when he notices Rantarou’s choice to take a different route home, circumventing the sight of the car wreck for Shuuichi’s sake.
If a thought of Rantarou is the best brother I could have, passes through Shuuichi’s mind as he settles into bed, well, who is he to say that he’s wrong?
The sentiment is not quite the same when he wakes up what seems only minutes after his head hits the pillow, sunlight streaming through the window, reminding Shuuichi that he does in fact need to wake up for school now.
He showers quickly, gets dressed even quicker, and is prepared to head downstairs and find Rantarou waiting for him so they can leave.
He does not. Instead, he finds Rantarou getting what must be the quietest yelling-at Shuuichi has ever seen.
Also, Byakuya is home.
Also also, Byakuya and Makoto both look really angry.
Shuuichi ducks behind a corner, sending a silent prayer to Rantarou in an attempt to atone for not facing whatever discipline is happening with him.
It is supremely awkward waiting for an appropriate time to make his entrance into the room, and despite his valiant efforts not to, his environment (and, in all honesty, his nosiness) doesn’t allow him any option but to eavesdrop.
“We shouldn’t have to be having this conversation again and you know it, Rantarou.”
“We’re teenagers. We should be allowed to have fun.”
“You are allowed to have fun, I just wish you would tell one of us before you go out into the middle of the night—”
“—I disagree. You shouldn’t be going out that late at all. You could get yourselves killed.”
“You know me better than that. I wouldn’t let anything hurt Shuuichi or I.”
“You say that as if you can control what, or who, decides to go after you.”
“Byakuya, I think it’s time to consider actually sitting Shuuichi down and—”
“I…don’t necessarily disagree.” A pause. Shuuichi hears Byakuya sigh; he can practically picture him pinching the bridge of his nose against a stress headache. “But we have to think realistically. A situation this…complicated requires a certain delicacy, and we can’t exactly just come out with it out of nowhere.”
Shuuichi, feeling confused and more than a little bit anxious at whatever he’s out of the loop of, decides he needs to make his presence known. He rounds the corner from the stairs, trying not to cringe at the sudden hush that falls over the Togamis.
The three sets of eyes on him start him sweating. Byakuya speaks first. “Shuuichi.”
“Ah, good morning.” He tries his hardest to seem casual. His neck feels hot.
“You and Rantarou snuck out last night.” Shuuichi has never known Byakuya to be anything but straight to the point, but the accusation — not even a question, he says it as a fact — hits him like a brick to the chest, and the sleepy smile he’d put on as he entered the room quickly drops off.
“Uh.”
Makoto and Byakuya give him matching unimpressed looks. Shuuichi wishes he’d stayed in bed. “I’m sorry.”
“I made him go with me,” offers Rantarou, earning a glare from both of his parents.
“Shuuichi’s just as guilty.” Makoto pauses, fixing Rantarou with another decidedly displeased look. “Okay, not quite. Nevertheless, you’re both very grounded.”
Shuuichi nods, fully accepting his fate. Rantarou mirrors him, though the badly-hidden smile on his face doesn’t do much for him in the ‘seeming genuinely sorry’ department. Makoto rolls his eyes, used to the both of them and their nonsense.
“Right home after school. I’m going to put you both to work.”
Shuuichi nods again, and Makoto waves them off, saying ‘I love you both!’ before moving into a different room. Byakuya taps for a few moments on his phone before looking up.
“Your ride is outside. Like your father said, home right after school. Please, Rantarou, listen to him for once.” Without further preamble Byakuya follows after his husband, pausing for a moment to ruffle Rantarou’s hair affectionately, and then do the same to Shuuichi. Embarrassed, he pulls his hat onto his head and follows Rantarou out the door.
Shuuichi does his best to push down the anxiety he feels at being in trouble with Byakuya and Makoto on the ride to school.
Easier said than done.
He does, eventually, feel his guilt over the situation lessen, but the anxiety sticking in his lungs doesn’t ebb. All day he is on edge, hairs standing on end; he feels eyes on him, everywhere, and it’s the strangest — and most uncomfortable — sensation he can remember feeling in a long time.
At first he thinks he’s imagining it; he rationalizes that he’s simply high-strung from the events of that morning, or overly tired from his late night, and he’s daydreaming. He spends more than one class looking over his shoulder, confirming with his own eyes that no one is actually staring at him; and even when he does, even when he catalogs every single person in each of his classes, sees for himself that no one is paying attention to him, the feeling doesn’t go away.
He ducks into the bathroom more than once to mop up the sweat building on the back of his neck and escape the feeling. By lunchtime, Shuuichi is a wreck, and he’s half considering calling Makoto or Byakuya to come pick him up.
The stress must show on his face, because when Rantarou meets him by a classroom door to walk him to lunch, his expression immediately falls, eyebrows drawn in concern. He approaches Shuuichi, a question on his lips, when suddenly his face — and everything in Shuuichi’s immediate vicinity, for that matter — disappears, eyes instead filling with red and blue spots. A sound akin to a clap of thunder booms in his ears, immediately followed by a sharp pain stabbing at the space between his eyes, and he feels himself collapse.
Ouch.
He still can’t see, still can’t hear all too well over the memory of the metallic clanging and the pain quickly overtaking his head, but he thinks he senses Rantarou’s shadow looming over him, and hears a distinct edge in his voice as he says, “Back off.”
“Out of the way, filthy Togami,” comes a hiss from above him, and Shuuichi, alarmed, opens his eyes just in time to see a girl he doesn’t recognize grab Rantarou by the neck and throw him several yards down the hall.
His body smashes hard into an adjacent set of lockers. Rantarou crumples to the floor. He doesn’t get up.
There’s yelling in Shuuichi’s ears; it might be his own, for all he can tell. He isn’t given long enough to tell before the girl focuses in on him, red eyes catlike and narrowed.
A hand tangles itself in the front of his shirt, hauling him upwards; in the next moment the hand moves to instead wrap around his throat, squeezing too tight to let any air through. Panicking, he tears at the hand around his neck with his nails, trying desperately to make her let him go. He might as well not be touching her at all her for all the effect it has.
Through the tears in his eyes Shuuichi focuses on Rantarou, still unmoving on the ground, still so far away. Terror mounting, he looks to her face, scratching as hard as he can in an attempt to just make her let go. The already intense scowl she wears intensifies and she bares her teeth, showing Shuuichi — to his complete and utter horror — four rows of dagger-sharp canines only a matter of inches away from his face.
She knocks his head against the lockers again, sending another shot of pain through his whole upper body. His lungs try to cough, but he pulls no air in.
“R-Rant—”
“Dead.” He’s pushed even harder against the wall. “You’re next.”
His vision goes all at once, leaving him swimming in terrifying, empty blackness. His chest, already heavy from the weight of the day’s anxiety, seems to grow infinitely heavier; stickiness sprouts from his stomach, moves like sludge through his veins, overtakes his whole body; the sensation makes him want to gag.
Very forcefully he blinks, and his sight returns some, but it’s different; his vision suddenly tips and he feels himself stumble. He looks around desperately, trying to regain some control on what’s happening, but he’s been seized by the worst vertigo he’s ever had in his life, and he’s not even sure he’s still standing up.
He forces himself to focus on the girl: is she still choking me? Her eyes are angry, rows upon rows of teeth still bared, but she doesn’t lunge as he expects her to; she moves so much slower, now, a complete shift from her lightning-quick movements from before.
The sudden change in speed is so disorienting, the blur of color and shape before him threatens to melt Shuuichi's brain. His limbs feel so heavy, like he must be swimming in, drowning in molasses, but when he forces his arms up to defend himself, he finds them moving just fine, the speed jarring in comparison to the girl and the rest of the world.
Shuuichi only gets as far as moving a hand towards her before his vision goes again, and this time, he can’t get it back. His sight is dark and his breath threatens to freeze him to death and he doesn’t even know if this is real, if he is even real as he floats in honeyed darkness.
Sensation comes back first. He’s on his knees — they hurt. The stickiness recedes, leaving him feeling off-kilter and unbalanced. The only remnants of it are his arms. They’re warm. Too warm. There’s something wrapped tight around his middle.
His vision comes back to him all at once, and he’s so overstimulated that he physically flinches at the reappearance of light. He looks around frantically, trying to find some semblance of what’s happened; he stops dead as he glances down at his hands, flecked with red.
The girl from before is on the ground, limp and breathing laboriously. Rantarou is conscious, on his knees and in front of Shuuichi, hands grabbing at his face, speaking harried words Shuuichi can’t make out. His eyes are wide, desperate, scared; so unlike the Rantarou he is accustomed to. They are surrounded by the penetrating, watchful eyes of classmates.
Sound returns last. There’s whispering all around him. Rantarou’s tone is near-hysterical, but he can’t make out the words over the new voice in his ear.
“Shuuichi, can you hear me? Come on, come back, come on…” Mr. Hinata’s pleading is gentle from right behind him, and it makes Shuuichi want to sleep. The tension saps from his body all at once, and he feels himself go limp, held up only by the arms Mr. Hinata has wrapped firmly around his torso.
He’s not sure how long passes before he’s brought to his feet. Mr. Hinata snaps at the forming crowd to get out of the way. Rantarou reaches out to help him stay upright, but he’s also reprimanded and told to go to the nurse immediately. As he’s led away, Shuuichi glances back.
He doesn’t register that the girl has disappeared until he’s sat down in the office lobby.
Shuuichi sits for a long, long time. His hands are too warm. He’s shaking enough to vibrate the chair he’s been deposited in.
At some point Rantarou joins him, gauze wrapped somewhat crudely around his head. He settles in next to Shuuichi wordlessly, wraps an arm around his shaking shoulders, and does not let go.
He’s not sure how much time passes between when he’s delivered to the office and when Makoto arrives, but it must be only a matter of moments from his arrival until when he’s ordered into the principal’s office, Rantarou following close behind.
In the office stands the principal, Makoto, and Mr. Hinata. Shuuichi doesn’t understand the intensity of the look shared between Rantarou’s dad and his teacher, but such concerns are immediately blown from his mind once the principal delivers to him the news that he’s been expelled for fighting.
“What?!” Rantarou is the one who objects, a look of shocked annoyance on his face as he defiantly gets to his feet. “Shuuichi was attacked. He was defending himself.”
Shuuichi looks down at his blood-covered hands. He wants to puke.
“Rantarou.” Makoto’s tone is sharp. He settles back in his seat, a dark look focused in his father’s direction. “Will there be police involvement?”
Shuuichi stops listening, not even slightly emotionally prepared to deal with the prospect of being arrested. He stares at his shoes until Makoto’s hand on his shoulder rouses him from his stupor and he stands, not offering a word to anyone as he leaves.
He tries to melt into the leather of Makoto’s car as they begin the ride home, hat pulled so low over his face that he can see nothing but the dark gray of the fabric on the inside. The obscuring of his own vision does nothing to block out the conversation up front that very obviously does not include him.
“You should have told me you had him as a teacher.”
“It would have only made you upset.”
“Obviously I’m upset,” Makoto says flatly. “He didn’t tell me he was around, that he was teaching my children, for a reason. You have a responsibility, Rantarou—”
“—I think you’re overestimating the importance of him being here.”
“He’s scouting,” Makoto fires back, voice low. “And there’s no one else of interest at your school. Which means he’s there for you, and as your parents, me and Byakuya should know why.”
“I didn’t say anything because I knew you would freak out like you are now.”
“I am freaking out because I was just called to the school, where both of my sons have just been expelled for fighting. You’re both covered in blood, Rantarou, am I meant not to 'freak out'?”
Rantarou sighs. “Have you called Byakuya?”
“Don’t call him that.” Makoto’s voice is tight. “And no, I haven’t. I was putting that off until I had asked you what you’ve been seeing.”
“…Is this a conversation we should be having in front of Shuuichi?”
He flinches at the mention of his name.
Makoto winces softly. “No, it isn’t.” A pause. Makoto kills the engine, and with a start Shuuichi realizes they must be home. “Shuuichi, look at me, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation he pushes his hat back up onto his head, looking at Makoto through the rearview mirror. His eyes are soft as they look at each other.
“Look, Rantarou, Shuuichi. I love you — both of you. There’s nothing Byakuya and I wouldn’t do for you. All I ask, is that — you keep us in the loop. Keep us involved. We can’t do our jobs as your parents and your protectors if we don’t know what’s happening. Okay?”
Shuuichi nods in acknowledgement, desperate to get out of the car. Makoto sighs. “Head inside, Shuuichi. I’m going to talk to Rantarou for a little while.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He maneuvers out of the car and into the house at Olympic-level speed, ducking into the first bathroom he comes across to begin the nauseating task of cleaning the blood from his hands, tears streaming down his face.
After spending what seems like forever scrubbing obsessively at his skin, Shuuichi is satisfied — to the extent he can be — and changes into his most worn comfort clothes, crawling into bed with the lights off and his covers pulled over his head. His phone is plugged in and on silent across the room.
The sun has set and his pillow has dried-in tear stains marking it before he sees another person.
There’s a sharp knock at his door, and without waiting for Shuuichi to answer the door is opened and Makoto is gently prying the blankets away from his face. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact, the memory of Makoto’s anger and his own shame in the principal’s office making him sick to his stomach.
“Shuuichi, listen to me, please.” With difficulty he looks up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Rantarou looming in the doorway, the tight expression he wears concerningly out of place. The baseball bat held loosely at his side is even more odd, but Shuuichi isn’t given time to dwell before Makoto begins to speak.
“There’s an emergency.” Shuuichi’s chest seizes in anxiety; Makoto rests a hand on his, squeezing gently. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. But I have to go meet Byakuya at work, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“I-Is he okay?”
“Byakuya’s fine, I’m fine, we’re all fine. But I need you both to follow my directions very carefully.” Makoto tilts his head minutely towards Rantarou. “Neither of you are to leave the house. Stay upstairs, don’t answer the door for anyone. If I come home I’ll call one of you and unlock the door myself. Don’t call me unless it’s an absolute emergency, and don’t make any calls at all to anyone else. Understood?”
Shuuichi nods mutely, the severity of Makoto’s tone doing nothing to lessen the sick feeling in his stomach. Makoto smiles softly at Shuuichi, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“If I’m going to be out all night, I’ll call Komaru and have her come over. I love you.” He squeezes Shuuichi’s hand once more before standing and moving briskly towards the door. He kisses Rantarou’s forehead as well, leaning in to whisper something not meant for Shuuichi’s ears before beginning towards the stairs.
Shuuichi looks to Rantarou, utterly confused: is he any the wiser about what is going on?
Rantarou gives him a pregnant, indecipherable look before he walks away without a word, leaving Shuuichi with a pit in his stomach as he somehow falls once again into a fitful sleep.
He’s woken up an unknown amount of time later by a rough grip around his shoulder as he’s shaken conscious violently. He sits up with a start, glancing around the room in a panic, wincing against the bright ceiling light. Rantarou pulls his hand away, face scarier than Shuuichi has ever seen it, his eyes wide and shadowed in a way that strikes Shuuichi as haunting.
He’s opening his mouth to ask what’s happening when he realizes his brother is absolutely drenched in blood.
“…R-Rantarou?”
“We need to go.” Rantarou drops a duffle bag onto Shuuichi’s legs. Blood drips from Rantarou’s hands and stains his blanket. “Pack absolute essentials only. You have two minutes.”
He exits the room without another word, the baseball bat clenched tightly in his fist, smearing the carpeting of Shuuichi’s room a grotesque blood color. Shuuichi jumps from bed, not understanding what on earth is happening, but complying anyway.
Shuuichi’s head swims as he rushes around, shoving anything he feels he might need into the bag. Why is Rantarou covered in blood? Is he hurt? Did someone break in? Why is he being made to pack a bag?
The look on Rantarou’s face flashes in his mind, and Shuuichi pushes his questions aside as best he can. He needs to hurry if Rantarou is in danger, and working himself up over the unknowns will only slow him down.
He ends up with his bag full of his phone and its charger, his inhaler, his wallet, a random assortment of sweatshirts, shirts, pants, clean boxers and socks, two binders, and the bear Rantarou won him. He pushes his hat onto his head as he swings the bag over his shoulder, and on a whim grabs the photo of himself and his mother that sits on his desk, pushing it on top of the bag’s contents and zipping it up before pulling his bedroom door open.
Shuuichi nearly collapses at the rush of nausea the smell of blood sends through him. There’s deep stains all over the floor, and in the midst of it all stands Rantarou, a bag slung over his back and the bat clutched offensively in both hands. Shuuichi plugs his nose against the scent of the hallway and looks at Rantarou, eyes wide.
“What’s happening?”
“Stop talking.” Rantarou takes a few steps forward, peeks down the long staircase. His voice is low, dangerous; it sends a chill down Shuuichi’s spine. “Don’t say a single word until we get to the car.”
Rantarou takes the first few stairs, dead silent, and after another sweeping look around he motions for Shuuichi to follow him. He does, keeping his voice as quiet a whisper as he can as he follows him down the stairs. “We can’t leave, your dad said—”
Rantarou holds a finger against his lips, expression harsh. “Things changed.” He holds out a hand to stop Shuuichi as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “Keep your eyes shut through the living room, I’ll guide you.”
Shuuichi’s seized around the wrist and pulled forward. The warning doesn’t register until it’s too late, and his eyes have already caught on the grotesque pool of blood staining the expensive hardwood.
There’s a body slumped in the middle of his living room. She’s bleeding.
And unlike at school, she doesn’t move.
His brain lags behind in comparison to his body in registering that she’s a corpse, and by the time the word corpse is actually running through his mind, they’re in the garage and Shuuichi is sobbing. He can’t get her face out of his mind.
Did Rantarou kill her?
“Get in the car. The black one.” Rantarou enters the driver’s side, motioning for Shuuichi to take the passenger’s seat. He does, dropping his bag at his feet and looking at Rantarou pleadingly.
“You — you c-can’t drive.”
“I’ll make it work.”
“Where are we going?”
Rantarou pushes the key into the ignition and peels out of the garage, turning hard onto the road and speeding off into the darkness. “Komaru’s house.”
“H-Have you called—”
“Not yet.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins rapidly scrolling through something. “I have one call to make before that. No talking.”
Shuuichi just nods, eyes focused on him as he presses something on his screen and brings his phone to his ear. The car shakes with the rapid speed Rantarou’s settled on.
“It’s Rantarou.” His voice is matter-of-fact; cold. Shuuichi, like with everything else that’s happened all day, doesn’t know what to make of it. “Byakuya and Makoto are away, and there’s a dead monster in my house. There’s probably—”
He pauses for a long moment, a far away look in his eye. “God damn it! We’re in a black car. I’m sending you my location, get here as soon as possible. You won’t have a long time.”
He hangs up, spends a few moments tapping on his screen, before dropping the phone in the cup holder and steadying the wheel with both hands.
“I don’t have enough time to explain what’s going on. I doubt you'd believe me anyways, but—” Rantarou pauses for another long minute, teeth grinding together. “Fuck. Fuck. Okay, Shuuichi. You’re going to learn a lot these next few days, all right? Keep an open mind. Be smart, because I know you are.
“Pick who you trust very carefully, because it’s not everybody.” Rantarou exhales, suddenly sounding small. His eyes laser-focus on something in the rearview mirror. “And don’t give up hope. I’ll be waiting for you on the other side of this, okay?”
Why does this sound like a goodbye? Why is Rantarou saying goodbye?
“No, stop, what are you — why are you saying that? Rantarou, why are you talking like that?” Shuuichi demands breathlessly, on the verge of hysterics.
“I thought I’d have more time.” Rantarou reaches behind him with one hand, pulling out his bag and dropping it at Shuuichi’s feet, following it with — inexplicably — the bloodied baseball bat. “Whatever happens, wherever we end up, know that I love you, okay? You’re my brother, and I’m so proud of you, and I know you will make it through this. We’ll always have each other's backs, and I’m going to need you to have mine right now.”
Rantarou tears his eyes away from the mirror to give Shuuichi a significant look, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Shuuichi wipes desperately at his eyes, trying to find meaning, to find the answer to what Rantarou is talking about in the few brief moments he looks at him.
He doesn’t get the chance. Rantarou’s focus is pulled to one of his door mirrors, and he grits his teeth in annoyance. Shuuichi follows Rantarou's gaze, mind completely blanking on what to think of the large, amorphous figures quickly gaining on the car.
“This isn’t going to feel good. Hold on, Shuuichi.”
Rantarou yanks the wheel harshly to the left, weaving into the oncoming lane of traffic. Shuuichi opens his mouth to ask what on earth he’s doing when something rushes Rantarou’s side of the car, sending the vehicle careening sideways down the road. Shuuichi hears himself scream in alarm, the sound cut off sharply as the car is hit again, sending them spinning off the shoulder of the road.
His head smacks roughly against the window and his vision fills with all-consuming purple spots. Something sticky begins to leak down the side of his head and he hears himself sobbing; from the pain, the terror, the shock of the unknown, a combination of it all.
A deafening metallic shriek rips through the air, grating on his ears, disorienting him further. His heart is beating as fast as it ever has, his breath is icy and hard to catch, and it’s impossible to make out what’s happening through the cloud of pain closing in around his head and the darkness quickly forcing his eyes into total blindness.
The last time Shuuichi is able to open his eyes, he can only watch as Rantarou is lifted from the wrecked car by an unknown force. He can’t make out if he’s injured, if he’s moving, if he’s breathing. All he can make out between the darkness and the stickiness falling into his eyes is the blood on Rantarou’s face.
Shuuichi must be dying. He must be. There is no other explanation for the sight of a large, dark figure, a creature he can only describe as monstrous, taking his best friend, his brother from him, leaving him to watch, helpless and injured and losing consciousness fast.
He hears screaming, and then he hears whispering, and then finally, he hears nothing.