Work Text:
“Hey, Saburo…”
Saburo keeps himself from cringing— less from being distracted from the script he’s been typing away at, and more at the extremely odd, extremely rare softness in Jiro’s voice when he said his name. All the same, he makes a show of being annoyed by replying in a sour seethe, “Look, Jiro, I gave in and said you could stay in my room but don’t bother me—”
“—Let’s play something together.”
Saburo lets himself cringe in full this time, jolt more like it, and though it was quick and hardly anything he ends up blanking out, staring at the jumble of codes on the screen. His hands clam up and he erases the line he was in the middle of writing to start over on it, but not without pushing his computer chair back and rotating on it to face Jiro after. “What did you just say?”
Jiro’s back is towards him; he’d called out to Saburo and offered the suggestion without looking up, without thinking, and somehow the idea that Jiro let fondness slip in idleness made something in Saburo’s stomach twist. But Jiro remains crouched awkwardly in front of Saburo’s shelves, oblivious, explaining again, “‘m bored… Can’t read the next chapter ‘cause me and Niichan promised we’d catch up together, he won’t be home till late…”
Saburo resists the urge to tell him it was a rhetorical question at best. And at the very least, it should’ve been obvious he didn’t need to hear Jiro’s explanation more than once.
The guy had sauntered into Saburo’s room proclaiming that he was bored out of his mind because he’d banned himself from picking up the next volume of the series they’ve been reading out of loyalty to a promise made with their eldest brother. On the surface it’s nothing short of ridiculous and Saburo would chide him over being too forthright for his own good, but he held back on the snippy remarks for the same reason he’s let him waste the afternoon away in here to try to curb his boredom: he’d hate it, too, if Ichi-nii cried about being betrayed over something as important (clearly) as light novels.
Saburo’s held fast to his self-control and stopped himself from demanding who the hell he thought he was to invade his privacy or yelling at him to stay the heck out of his room. He couldn’t even suggest just going ahead and reading since there would be no way Ichi-nii would find out even if he did, because that had sounded awfully conspiring in his head even though he’s the most reluctant otaku among the three of them. Instead, he’s simmered down and become willing to turn the airconditioner on, or let Jiro lie in his bed and nap to curb the restlessness if he wanted to, make him too comfortable to even think of temptation— all solely because it’s what would make Ichi-nii happiest in the end.
He made it clear that he was only doing this for Ichi-nii. He also made it clear that Jiro was free to stay, under the condition that he doesn’t lay a finger on the chess board he has out (he’s in the middle of playing a game with himself) or his telescope (he’d finally configured it enough to make it usable even with Tokyo’s light pollution), and, that he puts everything he touches back where he found it. Besides, it’s not like Saburo has anything to hide.
And on the off-chance he did, it would be in a diary, hidden in plain sight among his books. Luckily, neither of his brothers is interested in the least in stocks or programming, so Saburo’s sure they haven’t ever gone near his bookcase. Thus in spite of being bored as hell, Jiro hadn’t attempted it either, content with manually counting the black and white boxes on the chessboard, and fantasizing about catching a shooting star over Ikebukuro through the telescope.
Saburo glances at the clock and supposes it’s about time Jiro finally ran out of things to do by himself. Jiro didn’t want to leave the house lest he bumped into any of his friends who’ve already read the novel, and he’d even left his phone in his own room lest he felt the urge to look up spoilers on the net while browsing to pass the time. Then he’d ultimately decided that imprisoning himself in his little brother’s room and drowning in self-consciousness was the only way to last. To tell the truth, Saburo finds himself amused, albeit mildly, that Jiro’s even found a way to occupy himself till this point doing god knows what— at least he hasn’t been making a ruckus.
But now, at the very end of his rope, Jiro is rummaging through the huge stockpiled hoard of Saburo’s boardgames, which he’d made a beeline for first thing when he was let in but promptly gave up on because Saburo ordered him not to bother him, quite effectively bothering Saburo and noisily shaking up the boxes with cards and plastic tokens.
Aside his inclination to ignore Jiro, reject his invitation and get back to work on his computer, Saburo wonders why Jiro is even making the effort to look through the assortment of games. He can’t imagine that Jiro would be so finicky at a time like this; being low on stimulation must suck for even someone like Jiro, or especially for someone like Jiro; Saburo can empathize as much.
Then an assumption hits Saburo— touches him gently, really, with how familiar and automatic it’s become to him to think ill of Jiro, and he sharpens his tongue for good measure: “If you’re looking for a game you think you can beat me at, give up, dumbass.”
“Haaa?” Saburo readies himself for a retaliation and the impending bickering, but instead of getting all up in arms and barking like he usually would, Jiro simply tosses him a look over his shoulder. He doesn’t even seem offended over being insulted, just… irritated, like he always is when he gets misunderstood. He casts his gaze back towards the shelf as he clarifies: “You know boardgames are no fun when you play by yourself. Lookin’ for a game you’d enjoy, smartass, I ain’t the one who’s picky.”
Well, Saburo got that last part right… if anything. But his stomach is twisting again at the implication of the rest of Jiro’s muttering, and every fiber of Saburo’s being is pleading with him not to quip back with anything offhanded when Jiro was kind of being kind to him, was taking his sensibilities into account. But Saburo’s trained himself against the instinct of accepting Jiro’s kindness no matter what, and so responds condescendingly consequently, “I know all those games like the back of my hand, what makes you think you can stand a chance against me? Not to mention, I’ve found your Achilles’ heel with these things years ago. I’m telling you this for your own good, Jiro. I would quit while I’m ahead if I were you.”
“What on earth is with that fluff speech?” Jiro’s reply comes so quickly and casually and without bite, it almost surprises Saburo. He goes on, unbothered and candid and honest and convinced: “I mean, if you don’t try you’ll never know, right?”
Upon hearing that, Saburo slouches, and notices by the relief the motion brings him that he’d been tense this entire time for no real reason. He watches Jiro’s back wordlessly, unable to muster back up his usual cheeky eloquence, because he’s too busy turning Jiro’s words over in his head: You’ll never know unless you try, huh… That’s a fool’s motto. Saburo wonders where he gets all that confidence, out his ass? And doesn’t Jiro get it? Only idiots could be content living life through trial and error.
In his room on a day mostly like any other and his otherwise empty insults notwithstanding, Saburo decides once and for all that Jiro really might just be an idiot through and through. But when he watches Jiro fall back onto his butt less than gracefully and cross his legs to afford himself an easier sitting position, as if to dedicate all his reserved energy to finding a boardgame worth the effort it’ll take to try to win against a genius like Saburo but more importantly worth a genius like Saburo’s time, Saburo can’t find it in him to give voice to a jab like he always does.
To his frustration (or relief), they both let the fight fizzle out before it caught fire on the spark of Saburo’s sandy words. Still, Saburo’s certain he wasn’t wrong. Even if his intention to mock Jiro could easily be disregarded and unpunished thanks to Ichiro’s absence at the moment, realistically and statistically speaking, the odds of beating Saburo at a game he’s good at are a million to one. Be stupid like Jiro and the chances plummet into the negatives.
There’s a theory to it, a theory to everything Saburo does and gets invested in. And anyone would be able to take it up and figure it out by themselves if they had the mental fortitude of a natural genius like him. Stocks are dictated by trends, programming by the binary code. And games—in any shape, form, or context— are dictated by rules.
In boardgames, it’s what the booklets and and pamphlets are for. While even Saburo has to acknowledge that the child in him would much rather forego the fine, bland print of testy mechanics in favor of jumping straight into the pool of colorful boards and cards and pieces, settling for marveling at all of it sparkly-eyed just to lose in the end isn’t the objective, and the only fool-proof way to win is to know what the heck you’re doing.
Jiro, fool that he is, sets himself up to lose every time he insists he can learn a boardgame while they play instead of letting Saburo explain the rules before they do. Saburo may be twisted but he would do it properly, state the rules without leaving out any essential details or making up any of his own for his gain. To Saburo, that’s as much cheating as is using weighted dice or dealing preset cards, and he doesn’t care for a win if it’s not rightfully earned.
Saburo knows that Jiro knows that; when Jiro blames him for a getting a bad roll or bad hand, he never actually means it, because he knows from being with him all his life, that though Saburo’s a lot of things— crybaby, tsundere, brat— he’s not a cheater. So it can’t be that Jiro doesn’t trust him when it comes to this kind of thing, can it?
But if it’s not that, then what is it?
Saburo can’t think of anything that would justify why Jiro has to keep interrupting the flow of a game with stupid, needless remarks of surprise and frustration. It eggs Saburo on to a point where his comebacks feel like the natural reaction for sure, and in those times insulting Jiro does get excused even with Ichiro there, because a game is just a game, but a battle is a battle. And besides, ‘I actually read all the rules, unlike a certain simpleton here—’
“—What about this one?” Jiro suddenly raises, cutting through Saburo’s thoughts clean; he’s on his knees now, facing Saburo, holding a colorful box and unnecessarily rattling it for show. If Saburo weren’t already overly familiar with the game he’d tell Jiro to cut it out because he couldn’t make out the technicolor characters on the cover while he’s waving it around like that.
Saburo fake-sighs this time, in fake exasperation, having recognized the game from several weekends ago when Saburo came to Ichiro’s room to deliberately sabotage his marathon with Jiro, because neither of them could ever really deny him. “Didn’t Ichi-nii beat us at that game last time?” he disputes flatly, “Are you that huge a mor—”
“—Yeah, but ‘cause we already played it, I actually know the rules now!” Jiro exclaims, puffing his chest out as he gets on his feet, sillily proud. Then he sees the way Saburo’s eyebrows are furrowed and gets the confidence to push it with a hollow taunt: “What, scared of getting your ass kicked now, ain’t cha?!”
“Hah,” Saburo huffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Ichi-nii’s the only person I can comprehend losing to.” He half-turns back towards his monitor, hating that what he’s about to say next sounds like an excuse, like he’s running away or something, but deciding to say it anyway, “And in case you couldn’t tell, I’m busy right now. I wanna finish this as soon as—”
“I can wait,” Jiro chimes nonchalantly, setting the box down on the edge of Saburo’s single bed.
“Huh?” Saburo turns to fully face his computer again, narrowing his eyes at his keyboard, squinting. “Didn’t you hear me, Jiro? I said I wanna finish th—”
“You’ll finish it quick,” Jiro replies with certainty, and Saburo can picture him shrugging as he continues: “since Saburo’s a genius and all that jazz.”
Saburo wants to turn around to glare at Jiro, because what was that, some half-assed attempt at a compliment? What’s Jiro trying to butter him up for? It’s not going to make him want to drop what he’s doing just to personally entertain him, is he downright deluded or what? Saburo thinks better of reacting and types down some random letters and numbers to feign busyness with loud, snappy clicks of the keys. “If you can wait around like that then it would do you some good to actually read up on the rules while you’re at it.”
“…Hmmmmmm…”
“Don’t hmmmmm me!” Saburo clenches his jaw in frustration; is he doing this on purpose or is Jiro completely oblivious? Utterly hopeless? Saburo wants to rant, that the reason it takes them an entire afternoon up till evening to get through one round of a new boardgame is because Jiro keeps fumbling around in the dark. But he reins himself in again, unclenches, aware that if he starts a fight at this point he’d be unlikely to finish his script on time for his self-imposed deadline, and he won’t let Jiro hold that over him. He just holds his tongue, bites his lip, and quietly hopes Jiro shuts up and takes his advice, because even if he does relent to Jiro’s antics, without Ichi-nii here he doesn’t trust himself to be as patient with him when he fucks up.
It’s a boardgame’s triumph when it has its players as animated as possible around the table, Saburo reflects, but Jiro gets animated for all the wrong reasons. Aside the sweet, sweet satisfaction that comes with Jiro crying out in frustration when Saburo puts down a card he’s been saving for a crucial point just to trip Jiro up when he thinks he’s in the lead, or when Saburo pulls a card from the deck that would benefit his turns and his overall play immensely, Saburo can’t help wondering why Jiro doesn’t save himself the trouble of confusion and disappointment by just knowing the damn rules.
Saburo’s proven time and time again that if you know all the cards in the deck, if you know all the possible moves, you can have a plan B or a plan ZZZ for every thing that doesn’t go in your favor. You can maximize your resources. You can see traps coming— complain about them, sure, because after all luck both good and bad are a part of it, no matter how slight, no matter the fight— but nevertheless you can come up with a strategy from there.
Meanwhile Jiro would be too busy making noisy side-comments about things he can and can’t do because everything’s new and news to him. Saburo remembers when he’d brought in that game of life one time, and Jiro had yelled in despair when Saburo put down and activated his trap card. Because he hadn’t looked into the game beforehand he sincerely thought he was doing well, sincerely didn’t think anything could get in his way.
If Jiro actually read the rules like Saburo did, though, he might have taken it better. And if he’s being honest, Saburo can’t imagine living like that. Living with the shame that comes with making mistakes that could easily be avoided by at least knowing what you’re getting yourself into, whether it’s things that aren’t a big deal like a boardgame or things that actually count like… like schoolwork, or a rap battle. There are rules to it. Theories.
All of which Jiro just throws out into the wind along with any semblance of caution, because if it isn’t for the express purpose of earning back Niichan’s affection after a scolding or unnecessarily coming to Saburo’s rescue, or his own pride, his big ol’ pride, standing down just isn’t Jiro’s thing, is it? Not even worth considering an option.
The part with Ichi-nii’s affection, Saburo shares in the sentiment. He makes sure to lower his head properly without fail if it’s in front of Ichi-nii, too— he’s the only one he cares about enough to ever feel ashamed for letting down. And at the onset, Saburo avoids ever having to embarrass himself, again, by knowing his shit.
Jiro never knows his shit. He’s rash and charges right in with every fucking thing he’s got only to come back with nothing to show for it except the demented determination to try and try again. That’s despite boardgame-currency penalty after boardgame-currency penalty on good days or angry red marks upon angry red marks on average days, and on bad days…
On bad days… On bad days, Jiro comes back bruised and bloodied and barely breathing because he doesn’t know how to choose his battles, jumps at the chance to defend himself and his pride without thinking. Doesn’t matter if he’s blatantly only being goaded into a fight, as long as he’s pissed, that’s enough for him— he wouldn’t stand for shit. Saburo remembers one particularly bad night, in a back alley in Chuohku, and a dirty cop with his cosplay soldier buddy, and Jiro falling to his knees after his rap on its own did fuck-all to his enemies…
The rest of that memory is a blur of adrenaline and shock-waves from hypnosis speakers that felt like they could kill, and Saburo— Saburo’s sworn off thinking back to that time for his sanity and his peace of mind, at least that moment— because if he can ignore, forget how he’d acted just like Jiro, just like he detests, throwing himself into the fray without thinking for the sake of something he’s too worked up to understand, then he can rationally pick apart the rest of it: how Jiro had fallen for such obvious, shallow provocation, how Jiro had refused to get away even when he’d fallen completely in over his head, and… how Jiro had gotten right back up, swore to and with Saburo that they’d win.
Saburo doesn’t think about how they… frankly putting it, didn’t win; instead he rubs the vein in his temple throbbing in irritation because he hears Jiro rummaging noisily through his boardgames again instead of taking his advice. That makes two of them, Saburo halfheartedly judges, him and the dirty cop, whose advice Jiro is completely ignoring to no good end. Saburo thoroughly dislikes solidarity with an enemy though, that enemy especially, so he starts to question instead whether it was a fair comparison to make to begin with because he can’t stand it.
Saburo’s emotionally obliged to put up with Jiro; whether he likes it or not Jiro is there and he has to be there with him—he’s blood-tied to Jiro and he’s decided, he’s sworn that covering for him was only so he doesn’t get dragged down with him. Saburo’s also sworn off mentioning that time lest Jiro get some stupid idea like he cares for him at any rate or degree or something. Right? That’s all it is.
Regardless. Saburo catches himself derailing. While Saburo had been inexplicably furious to see those filthy adults gang up on Jiro—maybe because it wasn’t fair and he hates unfair developments (why don’t they go pick on someone their own damn size?!), or maybe because of discomfiting scenes it reminded him from their misfortunate childhood—he had to acknowledge that Jiro had picked a fight first, had been the one to instigate it. Of course, that dirty cop had no obligations to take Jiro up on his senseless challenge. In fact, a part of Saburo wishes he’d have just laughed in their face and left Jiro’s blood to boil by himself; in spite of circumstance and them, he followed Jiro into the back alley anyway and punched it out of him with hypnosis waves. As if he were aware that Jiro wasn’t aware of what he’d just started.
That dirty cop sadistically watched Jiro try and fail to fight, smirk in place the entire time while Jiro ground his knees into the dirt and took the shock of two attacks with his entire body instead of running away. He had posed with devilish certainty that that’s what Jiro would have done. Had humored him and gone that far, because somehow he’d been able to tell that Jiro wouldn’t learn otherwise. Through shitty glasses and a piercing glare and piercing sharper words, that guy had given Jiro a piece of his mind along with a piece of unwarranted though graciously granted advice.
But neither words nor pain get through to Jiro, and he’d engraved deep into the very fiber of his being how it felt to be so helpless that his little brother had to literally swoop in and save him when it should unnegotiably always be the other way around, and how it felt to be almost rendered so useless that he couldn’t be any helpful to their big brother, because he never not does right by his vows to him whether it’s experiencing plot twists together or breaking rotten walls and changing this rotten world.
The same way Jiro has no qualms wearing his earnest, naive heart on his sleeve, he puts his life on the line to learn through the mistakes he makes along the way, without giving the slightest damn about the inevitability of getting his heart broken or the possibility of losing himself, for the sake of his pride and all that he loves. And then Jiro only ever learns that way, the hard way, to learn at all. Saburo simply can’t fathom something that fatally moronic.
Now that Saburo seriously thinks about it, Jiro is literally like this with everything, isn’t he? Boardgames, rap battles, and everything in between—forgetting his pencil and eraser for exams he’s going to tank anyway, procrastinating preparations for a trip and nearly foregoing permits and waivers, accepting sketchy job requests only to find himself cornered in isolated container yards— Jiro cannot for the life of him internalize a lesson if there aren’t consequences for not knowing better. And, Saburo can’t even begin to imagine how that works, how it is that Jiro’s survived thus far when he’s become so partial to this act-now-think-later shtick.
To which exact extent does Jiro have to test his recklessness before he learns? Jiro has to be insanely lucky to have even made it in life carrying on doing things the way he does. How has Jiro not flunked out of school by now? How does he ever even get around the concrete maze that is Tokyo? How is he still alive when it’s as if even the skin of his teeth would be worn out by his shenanigans by now? Not that Saburo would ever actually wish him dead aside from writing requiem raps condemning Jiro and his foolish kind to the depths of hell, but it just doesn’t seem to add up in the least.
Saburo takes a deep breath in but he doesn’t sigh it out; he also resists throwing a glance over his shoulder and check what Jiro is doing now. The irritation from Jiro’s unannounced visit has turned into to an irritation with himself over the inability to comprehend Jiro’s… everything. Sure, it’s always easy to chalk it all up to how Jiro’s just so huge an idiot that it’s essentially beyond his ever-genius self, but his script is staring back at him and right in his face, silently interrogating him over why Jiro’s presence is bothering him so much, enough to distract him from it.
He’s about to argue and say he can’t help it, can he?? before he realizes he was about to say that to his computer, and has he gone mad? Jiro’s driving him mad. Considering how huge a simpleton he is, it’s positively amazing how much he complicates things for Saburo— it’s like sheer cognitive dissonance. Then again, as little brother to someone like Jiro, it’s his job to do the thinking altogether. He means, someone has to. Again, that’s all it is.
Until it isn’t. At the thought and at his screen, Saburo blinks. He hasn’t even agreed to play with Jiro but he already feels utterly defeated upon the realization that, without realizing it, he’d saddled himself with the responsibility of thinking enough for the both of them. Complain as much as he has all this time, Saburo’s done all this for him, and Jiro had never even asked him to. Jiro can’t look out for himself, but he hasn’t ever, not once, asked anyone else to do it for him, either.
Being smart is the one thing Saburo can hold over Jiro. Jiro, who, for better or for worse, gets fawned over anyway, no matter what—classmates will lend him their school supplies and help him study whether during lunch break or at the last minute, Ichiro will calmly, gladly remind him to check his belongings before he leaves the house, and what the hell, even a fucking enemy from a whole other division will attempt to teach him a thing or two about the crucial difference between loyalty and codependency.
All for what? Jiro would just start up again. Not because he didn’t learn a single thing—but because he’s still learning. Only coming to properly memorize items when he gets it wrong on a test he almost failed the term for, only coming to remember to double—triple-check his things unless he wants to commute and navigate by himself during crucial periods of time, or snarling at advice he didn’t want and didn’t ask for but not without secretly taking it in stride for the sake of growing stronger.
And Saburo, oh, even if it makes no difference to Jiro, he would be the very first to call him names and insult him to the ends of the universe and back for putting himself in stupid, sticky situations. But, in the end, Saburo would also be the very last to leave Jiro to die even if it would be no one’s fault except his own for getting ahead of himself or whatever it is he’d do to doom himself.
Desperately, Saburo wants to leave it at his half-assed conclusion that Jiro just happens to be fawned over by lady luck, too. Except when he spins on his chair again, he finds that Jiro’s come back to set up the boardgame he’d chosen, leaving the rule booklet pitifully untouched. Jiro is airily, mindlessly placing the pieces where he thinks they ought to be, humming and going only by noncommittal memory, but with only a few misses here and there and without care for even lines and spacing, he’s miraculously successful overall.
Then Saburo just simpers to himself. It isn’t luck, it really isn’t—it’s how he learns. It’s just how he learns. It’s the only way Jiro ever learns. And the reason all of this has flown over his head up until today is because Saburo is himself, and Jiro is Jiro—Saburo can do anything if he tries, but Jiro has to try to do anything. And while Jiro’s making a fool of himself, Saburo, speaking sick and spitting bars about his stupidity, will just be there. With him. Without any further thought other than a mental note to finish the script as quickly as he can manage once this is all over, Saburo reaches behind him and taps shortcuts to save and close his work, putting his computer and apprehensions to sleep. “Guess I’ll go along with you.”
Jiro perks up, as if he hadn’t already been imposing, as if he hadn’t knocked the telescope off its axis while he was rummaging and as if he hadn’t knocked the chess pieces over when he moved the table to make space on the floor to set up the boardgame. “You will?”
Of course he will. It’s vividly turned out that what compulsory education is to Saburo and the rest of the world is experience to idiots like Jiro, and while Saburo says he has time to kill till Ichi-nii comes home, he has a few things he can teach Jiro, too—while simultaneously kicking his ass for him, just because. For now, Saburo kicks lightly to roll his chair forward, and gets up to cross his arms over his chest theatrically and look down at him, even though he’ll join him on the floor in a short moment, and even though he’ll join him in all his endeavors and misadventures in the future, because despite all differences, cleaning up after is what little brothers are for. Saburo smiles, sly. “But be ready to get beat!”
“Aha—” The grin that Jiro puts on in response as he looks up at Saburo could blind him. He raises an arm, putting his hand on his bicep (on his sleeve, where he’s wearing his heart) and flexes it. “Bring it on!”