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It’s a contract; a way to soothe someone’s parents, to ease the grief that children bring by simply existing, sacrificed parts of a soul in exchange for a person who will never behave the right way. What is a perfect child, if not one whose body turns into ashes before they become a monstrosity, mother left weeping endlessly and father drowning in self-inflicted rage—or so Makoto supposes, mop heavy as an egg-yolk jelly floats by the glass, distracting him.
“Refrain from eating fellow jellyfishes tonight, they’re counting how many of you are left in the exhibit tomorrow morning,” there have been cannibalistic incidents lately, or he has read on the whiteboard in the cluttered breakroom where he isn’t allowed to do much anyway, “they shouldn’t blame you, after all, it’s in your nature. Mortal understanding will always fail your kind, deeming you a monster as if you wouldn’t have been snacked on by a turtle in the wild. Ah, here I go again, discussing the ethics of homicidal behavior with a brainless creature. Not a real change from what college is like, mind you.”
Chin atop of crossed hands on the mop, Makoto exhales softly, watching the creature drifting back to its buddies, probably having learned nothing from their one-sided exchange. He shouldn’t linger, although there is no precise time for him to clock out. Every glass must be spotless on the visitors’ side, and the floor sparkling, or so he’s been told, as it’s damn impossible to get that fugly linoleum to be anything but sticky—that’s what happens when the budget is spent for the well-being of animals, right? Nah, it’s simply that the aquarium is slowly decaying, and the best part is the jellyfish exhibit, which is, frankly, less impressive after you’ve spent hours there.
Must be around, what, midnight? At least there isn’t anyone to witness the ugly blue jumpsuit he has to wear while going through the same spots over and over again. Tomorrow he has to be up early enough to prepare himself for what’s to come or else Kagerou’s plan will fall apart akin to the rest of his life. Sleep is merely a failure of the human body anyway, a chore one has to go through in order to function. Another unbalanced contract, akin to the one Kagerou and him agreed on when he explained his parents wished to meet his boyfriend.
(“Oh, you should introduce him to me first, I’ll play the role of the disinterested father.” Wasn’t there cruelty in his voice, for he isn’t sure how to be anything but that mockery of a person when Kagerou slips out of his grasp.
“Dumbass, you’re the boyfriend.”
“Ah, you could have warned me we were a thing. Or, at least, I might have appreciated a fancy dinner to celebrate.”
“Yeah, well, you’re getting that. Parents wanna meet you. Not, like, you, but the boyfriend I mentioned since they were gushing about Daiji and—”
“Ah, so it is merely jealousy, once again, you can’t seem to outgrow that habit of lying for a sliver of attention.”
“Fuck off, you’re free tomorrow?”
“What’s in for me?” What of the endless affection he craves, of holding hands and teasing until his mind refuses to remain whole, and he pulls himself away from Kagerou? What is there to be said regarding that constant selfishness when fingers brush against a cheek, Makoto stepping aside, or those times Kagerou makes an attempt at actually doing more than simply walking home side by side? Can’t you want a single thing without ruining it?
“Name your price,” he said, and there was a terrible urge to simply reply ‘you, your soul, everything you have ever been, and none of Daiji’.
How grotesque affection is, the way it twists, how it makes you vulnerable—there are countless parts of a body where you can push with both hands, causing infinite damage—so Makoto only said: “New jewelry would be nice. Silver, of course, perhaps a ring.”
“Oi, better not be a wedding ring or some shit—how much are those even worth?”
Not much, Makoto could have casually replied, for they end up abandoned on a nightstand, a dim light reflected against metal—isn’t it foolish to pour money into something you engrave with promises, only to put it aside when it’s convenient, since bare hands should be free to roam against unfamiliar skin without the added weight. “Oh my, you’re bypassing every step on the way. I have no desire to ever marry you,” or anyone, “a simple ring I can wear on my index will do. In exchange, I’ll play the part of the smitten lover, even going as far as clinging to your arm and showering you with compliments. Or perhaps you’d prefer a more reasonable approach?”
“Don’t go overboard or be a dipshit. Just make it believable. I’m aware I’m asking on such short fucking notice that we can’t make up a real timeline, but we’ll talk about it on the train, ‘kay? I’ll pay for your ticket too.”
“Oh, I cannot wait to watch you squirm in front of the parents you try so hard to impress~”
“I know I should have asked Hikaru.”
“Eh, you considered other people before me?”
“Nah, after. You know, it’s what happens when the guy you kinda have a thing with is fucking insane.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
“It ain’t one! Meet me at 4pm in front of the train station, and wear one of your nerd outfits, not the fancy ones, I cannot stress this enough.”
“Are you insulting my fashion sense?”
“Yeah, if you’re too pretty my parents will think this is a scam—hear me out, Daiji wouldn’t be able to pull off having a boyfriend as beautiful as you, so my parents definitely have the same impression of me.”
“Fine, fine. Is makeup allowed?”
“Sure. No glitter though. That’d make you dazzling, and we need this to be convincing.”
Makoto definitely laughed. Typical of Kagerou for not seeing his own beauty.
Well, that makes it easier to keep him to himself, he supposes.
“It’s a contract, then. Pleasure doing business with you, Kagerou.”)
As the floors dry, pitifully slowly, as they always do, he has to sit on a small ledge where little kids climb to put their faces directly against the glass and do whatever normal children do. Anyway, as Makoto keeps his feet off the floor, pressing them against the cleaning cart whose wheels are so old they scare some of the animals away as he wanders through those halls, he wonders what he should say.
Should he craft an approximate backstory based on what television dramas offer, families reunited in the end, fathers melting into soft-spoken apologies after realizing their child was not a weapon for their own insecurities all along, mothers wrapping arms around trembling young adults as if they were still small and frail. He has never been a fan of those happy endings, for they feel forced and unnecessary. Why can’t the right thing be to sever all ties, to loathe until even that turns into grief you never deal with, just as your parents couldn’t be bothered? Wouldn’t it be enough to introduce himself as “Makoto, just a normal boy,” he repeats the words out loud, and they resonate as far as the sea turtle exhibit—they certainly wouldn’t care more than the jellyfish. “Hi, I’m Hatsushiba Makoto.”
Perhaps Hikaru would have been a more appropriate choice for a favorable outcome.
Parental love is an unreliable thing, isn’t it?
As a child you yearn for it so eagerly there is no self-introspection, and, by the time you’ve outgrown what they had to offer, you find fault in those adults who raised you wrong. It’s too late, they tell you, it’s too late, the blame is yours.
The back of his head pressed against the glass, jellyfish dancing endlessly behind him, allowing the current to push them around into something mesmerizing, Makoto wonders how you should introduce yourself while omitting every part of who you are; there isn’t a single about him which won’t sound crooked when said out loud.
A few tanks away, the sea turtles drift around with their judgemental faces, and Makoto wants to go home.
Wherever that’s supposed to be.
✦✦✦
“You failed to mention that your parents run a bathhouse.”
“What? Oh yeah, they do.”
Out of every futile detail blasting nervously out of Kagerou’s mouth as soon as they sat down on the train, that’s the one which evaded him. Isn't it convenient, to omit the sole real trouble for Makoto, and then to pass it out as some mistake? He can fake being a person, although there is no way for him to paint over his whole body and erase his father’s messed up affection as one would wipe down a nasty stain on a kitchen counter.
“Is that gonna be a problem?”
Tugging on Kagerou’s beloved necklace, Makoto gets him to his level, with a pleasant smile plastered on his face. “As long as you do not turn it into one, it should be fine, or so you expect me to reply. My ruined body isn’t meant to be put on display in a public space, in case you have forgotten that insignificant aspect of your boyfriend.”
There haven’t been talks of any of this—of scar tissue changing the shape of one’s body, of the shame of not being able to ever show his upper arms again, even less his torso or his awfully marred back—the closest to that they have ever gotten were hands trailing where they shouldn’t have. The way you tuck your stomach in as if you could shield your organs from being bruised and left in disarray; there wasn’t even a conversation, as Makoto has long learned that pleading isn’t the way that stuff goes. His shoulders shook, as if he was a puppet whose strings were toyed with against its will, and Kagerou moved away, mumbling a half-assed apology.
He recalls himself shrugging the tremors away, and they moved on.
Kagerou has done his best to never touch him like that since then; which isn’t much considering he’s only half of a person himself, yet it’s, without a doubt, more than whatever anyone else ever bothered doing for him.
“Hey, you don’t have to take a bath with my annoying older brother, or even myself, it’s only a family dinner.” There is a pause, Makoto’s grip switching to him simply adjusting the collar of the shirt Kagerou is wearing, as if there was a need to do so. Still, it’s as much communication as he’s willing to do right now. “You’ll be fine, what’s the worst that can happen anyway?”
✦✦✦
There is always violence in that sort of reunion, isn’t there? It starts out with small jabs, comments which are meant to be playful nudging, and certainly nothing else. When do your ribs start aching for fresh air though? The sharp pain of the knife someone left there long ago intensifies as you remember when and how happened, and maybe you were five and seventeen at the same time, and it also started with an innocent observation, and you blinked only to find yourself on the floor, in a pool of your own blood.
“How is Daiji doing?”
It’s easy to decipher Kagerou’s clenched jaw, the way his elbow digs into the table as if he was only dreaming of wood shattering underneath the weight.
“He’s fine. You saw him last week, didn’t you?”
Ah, Igarashi Daiji is anything except for being well-put together. He’s the one they have to watch out for, not as an abused animal ready to bite in self-defense kind of way, more of a constant tendency to simply erase parts of himself in order to make space for something better yet so deeply unattainable. It’s a secret though, one that Makoto is willing to keep, as he’s kind of Daiji’s friend too, by now.
(They’re not the twins to him, to them. Not Daiji-and-Kagerou, as it wouldn’t be fair, when half of them are barely themselves, when Makoto has never felt like a person, and he’s convinced that neither has Hikaru.
That might be why he tends to avoid that one, to put as much distance as possible into two interpretations of a similar ache.
Both are fake, just like Kagerou and Daiji, like everyone else.
They’re pretending, and they’re good at it, aren’t they?)
“And Sakura the one before that,” the mother adds, and she seems sweet, “yet, you kids don’t share a lot about what’s going on in your life—ah, your siblings and their studies, and you—”
“And me.” Unworthy. Black sheep. The kid you didn’t even want. “I’m the first to bring you someone, am I not? Don’t think the others have a lover, not even Big bro who is the oldest.”
“Hey, I’ve been busy taking care of the bathhouse, and I’m still young!” There is amusement in Ikki’s voice, although a hint of weariness worms its way in, too. How many times has he been rehearsing that sentence, Makoto wouldn’t know. “We’re happy to have you over anytime, you know, and same for you, Makoto.”
“Didn’t expect our Kagerou to be the one to bring a boy home,” and there is a palm slammed on the table, the father laughing.
Makoto slightly flinches, masking it behind an immediate polite smile.
Once again, rather than paying attention to that man, Makoto focuses his gaze on the oldest brother, as neither Sakura nor Daiji could make it due to their studies, so it’s either him or the toddler who is half-asleep over his food, ready to fall into the bowl head first.
Better not make eye contact with young children, they’re way too unpredictable.
Anyway, Ikki has, once more, that saddened sort of joy to him, when you push your lips up, and your eyes start to sting a bit.
Ah, to bear the weight of the whole family on his shoulders, must not be pleasant.
“Not that it’s a bad thing at all!” Igarashi senior makes a dismissive gesture, “what matters is that my kids are happy. All five of them.”
Perhaps they should have stopped at four, yet it’s not Makoto’s place to say that.
He thinks that Kagerou is mentally trying to make everyone at the table explode with his mind right now anyway.
“Enough babbling about myself and my beautiful children and wife! So, you study math, right, at the same college as Daiji? What do you plan on doing with your degree? Engineering, or perhaps a teacher! Wouldn’t that be great? If you manage to secure a teaching position at a college you’d have a perfectly planned life.”
Does Igarashi Genta ever tire of ranting like that? Probably not. “Ah, yes. I’m indeed majoring in Applied Mathematics, you got that right. Nonetheless, I haven’t decided on my future profession yet.” Makoto offers a placid smile, spoon nudging a couple of carrots away from the potatoes in his plate. How can one explain there was no plan to live past eighteen and that now he’s stuck in this limbo where he has to move forward, as there is no other option?
“Well, there is time! I’m sure you’ll do something good once you graduate. What’s your family like?”
Oh, now, Kagerou has moved to the stage where the corner of his mouth is slightly twitching. How fascinating. Under the table, Makoto’s foot collides with his fake boyfriend’s ankle, straight into the bone.
Drop it.
As if, Kagerou’s eyes seem to reply, and here he goes.
“I told you to not ask him that.”
“Ah, I guess I forgot, my bad—not a great relationship between you and your parents, I get it, kid?”
Makoto lets out a chuckle, as that’s one way to put years of abuse, he supposes. “They divorced when I was younger, and both moved on from each other, and me.”
“That doesn’t sound right, even once separated, adults do not lose their position as parents,” comes Igarashi Yukimi’s voice, her hands busy lifting the sleepy toddler and putting him on her lap, “It’s a lifelong commitment, not something meant to be thrown aside to start anew.”
“Ah, that’s how it is for me, that’s all.”
“Still. Are you at least in contact with them? Do they check on you from time to time?”
“That’s enough.” Kagerou lifts his head from the palm against which it was resting, staring at his half-eaten curry with something akin to badly concealed fury, “stop pestering him. It’s not because you value family over everything else so much that everyone does.”
“It’s alright.” If it becomes compulsory, he’ll make up a lie about still being in contact with his mother—wouldn’t it be a little bit real, since that time where they crossed paths at the grocery store after years of not seeing each other? Isn’t hilarious that all he recalls is the way she recoiled, shielding a little girl away from his gaze, and yeah, he guesses she got her happy ending.
(Or whatever motherhood is meant to be.)
“It’s fucking not.”
“Kagerou, language.”
“You don’t get to slither your way into our relationship, nor his personal life. Yeah, I know, introducing someone to parents means it’s serious, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to compromise what we have for your sake.”
“We weren’t trying to—”
“Doesn’t matter, I told you to keep your remarks to yourself yesterday when I called, so what’s your excuse, really?”
How simple it is, to slip back into childhood arguments, when he still felt the desire to defend himself from unjust reproaches—shouldn’t Kagerou know better than to cause a scene though? Nothing about what they are is real; nails digging into the back of a hand to stop the other from walking away, those times where Makoto has to sit in the dark and stay there until his head stop throbbing so Kagerou will crouch next to him until he’s done having an incomprehensible fit over something unimportant. Every time where Kagerou will force himself to do something for Daiji’ sake, mumbling it’s fine, it’s no big deal, and Makoto has to drag him back to himself after, to cling and complain as loudly as possible, repeating ‘Kagerou, Kagerou, I hate you,’ just so the other man will not forget his own name.
“Let’s not—I’m sure they didn’t mean to be invasive,” Mr. peace maker says, trying to diffuse the situation before everything explodes just like the potato underneath his spoon, “just chill a bit. I get that you’re nervous and all, it’s just—no one is interrogating you.”
“Your brother is right, this should be a pleasant dinner. I even made your favorite, spicy curry, completely homemade, just like you have always loved.”
That’s wrong.
Curry isn’t what Kagerou picks for comfort any longer, it hasn’t been in a while. Lately, he’s taken on filling plastic containers with inarizushi, half of those will get hot sauce poured against the bottom of the soft tofu pocket before he adds rice and canned tuna he kneads together into tight balls. She has no idea of the way he bursts into manic laughter when Daiji goes for the wrong one, mouth of fire and calling Kagerou an asshole for that cruel game of russian roulette.
Mother or not, she hasn’t witnessed how her fourth child will claim it’s payback for trying to steal his food, the one he made with his hands, as if he wasn’t buying the tofu pockets in bulk, barely spending less than ten minutes assembling it all.
He’s done that to Makoto too, which doesn’t work as well as he tolerates spicy food rather well in comparison to Daiji. Extra strong curry though? Not exactly something he looks forward to.
Sometimes, as he exits the aquarium, the chilly evening air blowing into his face, he’ll find Kagerou leaning against any available surface (usually a pole, sometimes a wall), attempting to fake nonchalance when he’s been practicing his pose like some idiot for over ten minutes. And Makoto can tell, because of the way his lips curl, not quite nicely, yet there’s always some kind of ‘let’s go eat, I’m starving’.
Every time, without fail, Makoto replies with ‘only if you pay for my meal’.
If he’s a bother enough, expensive and bratty, then Kagerou will eventually move on, like everyone else.
Those habits they’ve fostered in their interactions, aren’t they more terrifying than any confession? Isn’t obsession exalting only until the person you want to keep returns the favor? And then, it’s simply unbearable; the possibility of returned affection, of hands which wouldn’t hurt for the sake of entertainment, of having someone you could call anytime, and, no matter how annoyed, they’d ask you ‘hey, what’s up?’.
That sort of thing, it’s disgusting.
“It’s great, thanks,” hey, at least you could pretend properly, he wants to scold the man he doesn’t love, for it’s not something he’d ever be capable of, “I guess I’m sorta irritable. Been a while since I’ve been home too, and you’re all the same as when I left. Except for Koshiro.”
“Ah, babies grow really fast, you take your eyes away and bam they’re like wiggly worms, getting into everything. That little devil destroyed my beautiful lego project the other time,” and here goes another Genta anecdote, “so I turned it into a whole scene of him in a Godzilla onesie, destroying the town! I filmed it, and it was posted on my Youtube channel, have you seen it?”
“Can’t say I check that often…”
What a basic mistake. Apparently it’s an open invitation for Genta to hold his phone right in front of Kagerou’s face, much to his fake boyfriend’s annoyance. What did he expect, certainly nothing as bad as Makoto, whose fingers clenched his pants so hard he must have dug his fingers into his skin through the fabric. The arm jerking in front of him should have been accompanied by some sort of warning.
The oldest sibling has his eyes on Makoto, which isn’t enjoyable either. The last thing he wants to get roped into is having a heart to heart with that guy. Ah, Hikaru would surely have come with a ten pages plan to ensure an amiable meeting, whereas the only thing Makoto had on his mind while getting ready was a long complex ptsd flashback which may or may not have ended with him taking a cold shower and reminding himself that parents usually do not toss plates at their kids during a family dinner.
(Sounds fake, but well.)
“You were also a little gremlin at that age,” the mother gushes, planting a kiss on top of the toddler’s head, “Daiji and him would play hide and seek so well they wouldn’t come out until found, even if we called them for dinner. You worried me so much!”
“What a coincidence, I was also that sort of child,” Makoto doesn’t know why he says that out loud, only that Kagerou snaps his head back in his direction so fast that he might have injured himself in the process, “a prodigy a that game, or so my mother would tell her friends. I could remain hidden for hours.”
(Twisting the ugly truth into something bearable, again.
Are there transcripts somewhere, misplaced between a warehouse and the street next to it, papers having flown everywhere, leaving a pathetic trail behind them?
Her words, as he remembers every insult, every remark, were “he’s just a handful, always begging for attention, at least when he’s in his closet doing whatever his games are meant to be, we get some quiet quality time,” and, to him “can’t you see how much you’re exhausting your father? If you stay there quietly, I’ll give you a nice rice ball later. Shhh, mommy needs to clean the house now. Don’t move, don’t say a thing, and you’ll be a good child. You’re special Makoto, but you have to be normal for daddy and mommy, okay? I love you.”
I love you, what a joke.
What a pathetic joke those words have always been.)
He glances at his half-eaten food, appetite long gone before the conversation even started.
The following silence doesn’t help, and he supposes his tone shifted to something not quite fitting for a family dinner. As if on cue, Kagerou shoves as much rice and sauce in his own mouth at once, probably in an attempt to avoid bursting into concern or whatever couples do when one says the wrong shit.
And how should he know what is appropriate and what is not?
Google? His previous dating experience? Which was never more than sleeping with a couple of men and going on ‘dates’ in exchange for gifts—as if feelings were ever involved.
“How did you and Kagerou meet?” Ah, Igarashi Ikki, always so keen on saving the situation.
Swallowing harshly, Kagerou has to press a hand in front of his mouth, curry probably burning his throat a bit, before replying. “Party. He was sitting on a shitty balcony edge and I told him to get the fuck down. He laughed at me, and we had an argument.”
“Is that so? I seem to recall you were annoyed for no real reason—”
“The reason was that you were being a fucking clown.”
“Langu–”
“I know, I know. He was one though, hitting on me although we had never interacted before, seriously.”
“Did you get him to come down, then?”
“Yeah, just had to call out his stupid ass.”
“That’s not how it happened!” How rude it is, for Kagerou to rewrite the story to fit whatever narrative he chose,“I swear, I wasn’t even remotely trying to seduce you.”
“Yeah, what do you call jumping between my legs then?”
“The balcony was crowded, where else did you want me to land, on the pavement?”
Is this the kind of stuff you talk about in front of someone’s parents? Well, the words came out as fast as Kagerou probably did when he announced having a boyfriend. As they stare at each other, Makoto faking an indignant tone, face slightly closer to Kagerou than it should be, the other sighs, shoulders slumping in apparent defeat.
“You were dazzling, that’s the word I texted Daiji, and then he freaked out because he wanted your picture and I said no fucking way.”
“Oh, is that why he stole your phone to ask me for a selfie a few days later?”
“Eh, how do you know it wasn’t me?!”
“Your typing isn’t comparable at all, Daiji puts an actual effort into his texts whereas you shorten everything and don’t even use kanji.”
“Screw me. Anyway, that’s how we met, and he’s been glued to me since.”
“Once again, isn’t it the other way around?”
Makoto sticks the tip of his tongue out, just enough to annoy Kagerou without causing a heart attack to their middle aged witnesses.
“Whatever. Eat a bit more.”
As he savors the faint blush on his not boyfriend’s face, he experiences a completely different kind of hunger. Already though, Kagerou is gesturing towards the food left on his plate, and then he glances at his mother, as to suggest she’d appreciate it if he could make some sort of effort.
(Why is everyone always glimpsing at his food, chopsticks keen on adding an extra egg or whatever in his lunch box—he was fine with only a rice ball, before Tamaki and his smothering issues took over. That guy even bought him a real lunch box, with cute little sea animals, which is, frankly, baffling. Most of them are not even accurate—like the octopus not having the right number of arms—either way, he hates being watched, hates having reminders that his friends care, hates having friends to be honest, and, above everything else, he can’t stand that he had to wait over twenty years to experience something of such nature.)
“Yes, boss.”
“Oi, don’t call me that!”
“Fine, fine, my little bat.”
“Not in front of my parents, you dumbass—”
There is something almost soothing in Kagerou’s eyes going wide, in the way tension accumulates in his jaw as he can’t even formulate anything coherent. He wants to mess him up like that every time, to be the only one to dissect that bat’s heart, keeping it as some messed up trophy. Got you~
There is a chuckle somewhere in the room, although Makoto is too busy admitting he probably hasn’t eaten enough (not his fault if years of not being fed properly have taken away any hunger cue), and the curry isn’t that bad. It simply doesn’t taste like Tamaki’s food—and he guesses that, when you consider every parameter, Tamaki’s meals are the closest to home.
Revolting.
✦✦✦
“Earlier, what did I do wrong?”
“Hm?”
“When we were at the table and hide and seek was mentioned, there was an abrupt pause—”
“You were smiling, and, in a way, I’d say that was the wrong sort of smile?”
“As if cruel?”
“Nah, just kind of sad, as if you were not having a great time.”
“Oh my. My bad.”
How did he end up stuck with the older brother, Makoto isn’t so sure. After dinner, Genta took Kagerou aside to show him his latest home projects (aka nothing of interest), and the toddler decided to be fully awake and launch a brutal attack on Makoto’s hair, apparently fascinated by the color. Which would have been fine in a store or any other setting offering an escape route. Instead, he had to sit there, refraining himself from bapping the hands away from his face and hair—after all, Koshiro is a baby, he doesn’t know better—or so Makoto repeated to himself until Ikki scoped his brother akin to an unruly kitten, immediately cracking a joke about Makoto being popular with children for sure.
While Igarashi went on with the inaccuracies, telling Koshiro that the stranger was basically a new family member (terrifying, and a great way for Makoto to be suddenly anxious about missing the train back home at 10pm), Yukimi finally took over. As she whisked away the tiny human for his bedtime routine, that left only the two of them in the room.
Somehow, the idea of a night bath was mentioned, which—Makoto isn’t made for those continuous moments where he has to lie, sure he has mastered the art of falsifying his life, and yet.
Which leads to the actual predicament, Makoto, stuck between being a terrible guest, and scaring the shit out of his future brother-in-law (he wouldn’t be surprised if Kagerou dumped him on the train home, honestly. It’d fit how they work).
“I’m sorry, my parents can be a lot. They mean well, it’s just—” And there is something in Ikki’s posture, his body hunched over the broom exactly like Makoto does at the aquarium, when the night keeps on getting longer and his workload refuses to lessen, “anyway, I won’t pry. I’m simply glad Kagerou found someone.”
“Aren’t you a bit jealous that our love story came before yours?~”
“Not really.” Truth be told, he can’t quite place Igarashi Ikki into a singular category yet—he seems caring, yet it’s rare for Daiji or Kagerou to mention him. Sakura calls him every week, and he’s heard his voice through her phone once or twice, although it’s all he has on the elusive older brother who stayed in their hometown. “If I’m fated to have someone, I’ll meet them eventually, won’t I?”
“Ah, you’re that kind of person. The hopeful and kind hearted man who looks at the stars and sees a possible future, aren’t you?”
“That’s a bit of a quick judgment,” and Ikki laughs, as if he had known Makoto for years, as if he had been nagging him for a shared bath so many times that it would have turned into nothing more than an usual sort of pleasantry, “I’m open to every option, I’d say.”
“Except for the one where you leave Happy Spa.”
“I see no reason to. This is the life I’ve chosen for myself. And if I want to believe in a predetermined hope, why couldn’t I? What about you, then? Don’t you think of Kagerou as some kind of soulmate?”
What a devious trap! If he refutes that theory, stating it’s merely a casual fling, then meeting him and the parents would have been meaningless. As Makoto pries his brain apart, always troubled when feelings and logic have to be associated, Ikki gestures towards the bath, the showers and all of this.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bath, it helps sometimes, when you don’t find your words.”
“Oh, the customer service voice~”
“You got me there. I’m serious though. I need to clean the floors for a bit, and we’re closed anyway, so you can soak privately if you want, I won’t look.”
“Hey now, what are you implying?”
Shouldn’t Kagerou appear for a well-timed rescue? Isn’t it the part where they head back early, an argument exploding at the station as trains run past them without stopping, deafening whatever they have to say?
“Nothing at all! Except that I won’t look, and I can turn some of the lights off too, if you’d prefer.”
“How would I know, I’ve never been to a public bath.”
“Now you’re getting me riled up! Never as never-never?”
What’s up with that guy? Makoto has those urges, the ones where he’d run and never be seen again, but then wouldn’t it prove some undefined superior power that it was right all along by claiming he couldn’t even fake normalcy. He nods, more amused than anything else, as fright is easy to push away, left hand holding his opposite arm as if the fracture who still aches on rainy days was still fresh and agonizing.
“It’s not impossible to put the pieces together, is it? Troubled family life, saying the wrong words when I’m around adults—I’m also one, yet there is a difference between facing people your age and parents with five kids, which is also a bizarre number, if you ask me. Either way, even Kagerou hasn’t seen all of me, and I’d rather if he didn’t.”
“He wouldn’t leave you.”
And how could you know, you the man with a heart of gold, eldest and beloved sibling of an almost normal family? Adult who still believes in fate rather than luck, who still has kindness to spare to a stranger although he’s been lying to you all evening?
“That’s the convenient answer, isn’t it? Love should surpass everything, it is enough to make anyone whole—I’ve heard those words before, and was left behind in spite of the promise that it wouldn’t happen another time,” whatever was in that curry must have been a truth serum or else he wouldn’t babble in such uncanny manner, “there isn’t much I believe in, Igarashi Ikki.”
“You love Kagerou though, don’t you?”
How could I even know what love is, for I have never experienced it?
“If I get into that bath after a quick shower, would it shut you up?”
“Maybe?”
“You’re tough to negotiate with.”
“Ah, I’m the kind of guy who can’t let someone mop in a corner without lending a hand. And everyone should experience the joy of Happy Spa at least once!” Flashing him a grin with the most annoying thumb up, the worst person on Earth has just won their little duel.
“No more than ten minutes.”
“Sure, sure! That’s better if it’s short anyway, since your body isn’t used to it. Pick a locker and I’ll be on the other side scrubbing the floors! You won’t even be bothered by my presence.”
“Then go, already.”
“How is it? The water isn’t too hot? Do you want me to prepare you a cold drink for once you’re out?”
“Wasn’t there a part about not disturbing me somewhere in your little speech?”
“I’m not in front of you though!”
“I can still hear you through the wall, Igarashi Ikki.”
How aggravating.
Anyway, it’s not even close to the ten minutes threshold.
There is indeed an adjustment period, or so he guesses. Like, the first time you experience an onsen, you shouldn’t linger in the water for too long, or else you’d get sick—that’s probably why Igarashi keeps on talking to him, offering unnecessary instructions and advice. It’d be bad for business to end up with a corpse floating face down in the bath, wouldn’t it?
His scars ache; they often do, like broken bones which aren’t perfectly aligned any longer. He has grown alongside those troubles, merely considering them an hindrance rather than anything chronic (at least until he met Tamaki and his heart full of worries, and then his foolish friends who are the same way). Still, isn’t he repulsive? Ah, he’d rather be called that due to his lack of heart, rather than because his father threw a pot of boiling water at him when he was sixteen. It’s easier to be a monster due to your tongue, horrible actions leaving a trail of bodies in your wake, preferably than being mocked due to scar tissue caused by your shirt melting against your chest and shoulder, as if you had never been quite human in the first place. Hands so rough you can still feel them on your upper arms, crescent shaped scars on those too, shards from bottles surrounding them as nothing was left untouched—inhuman, monstrous.
There is a scream lodged in his throat, water pressing against the soft part of a soul he doesn’t have, and he wants to get out.
As he lifts his gaze, finally realizing that the walls are not covered in uneven paint like that cheap flat was, his eyes find a figure standing next to the showers.
Someone tall and menacing, clenched fists and all the things he remembers from his father, except for the face—oh well, father was never more than a shadow, and you have your mother's face, yet it has never done you any good, you useless thing.
No, that’s wrong. Father was the monster, Kagerou is Kagerou.
He’s rough and loud, he wants to be seen so badly he’ll paint over traits he shares with his brother over and over until his hands ache. He’s someone who once loved curry and moved onto something else, exactly like he used to call that place home, until he outgrew it. He’s the guy who has a collection of nail polish he loves to use on Makoto’s fingers, telling him to stop wiggling and be still for once. He’s that idiot, always waiting for him when he has no reason to, complaining when a hand grabs his own, yet refusing to let go.
Makoto will never believe in fate, but if he did, he’d knit its threads himself until they would spell his name.
He’s Kagerou, and Makoto would burn down the world for the two of them, if they got to share a throne above the charred mass of corpses left underneath them. He’s his, that’s all, and there is no luck nor anything else keeping them so close.
“Fucker,” is what comes out, rather than ‘man, you’re so fucking ugly’, “I was looking for you. Like everywhere. You let my brother kidnap you?!”
“I don’t think it counts as a kidnapping if it’s consensual, you know?”
Fuck being soulmates, fuck the concept that there is someone in this world destined to save them. They dug themselves out of an early grave with their own hands (and maybe Daiji’s, and Tamaki’s, and Hana’s, and Hikaru’s—ah, so many people), and there is no one who can tell them who to love, or how they should be. Fuck being soulmates, and, evermore fuck the idea of a deity looking over them and deciding in their name.
“Did he throw you inside the bath? If so, I’ll kill him.”
“Please, he simply lured me in with a commercial speech regarding the advantageous effects of a quick bath on the body and mind.”
“I’ll kill him anyway, just in case.”
“Won’t you join me instead? Only for five minutes, I might pass out after that, to be honest.”
“Are you stupid?! If it’s your first time you shouldn’t stay in for too long—”
“Ah, your brother said the same thing.”
And already Kagerou is marching out, tossing his stuff on the bench rather than inside a locker, returning after what’s the quickest shower Makoto has ever seen (except for Hikaru’s two minutes 'efficient and practical approach to showering when you’re late’ featuring 5 in 1 soap).
Water overflows the bath as he gets in, and there is that odd moment where a naked body next to his should mean something else, and then nothing. Kagerou sits there as if he belonged into that exact spot, looking ahead rather than at his fake boyfriend.
“Tonight’s a disaster.”
“Oh, totally. That’s kind of hilarious though, in the way you’d look at a trainwreck.”
“Only you would find that sort of thing remotely funny, just so you’re aware.”
“Ouch.”
Out of nowhere, as if he had gathered himself back into a person, Kagerou’s whole body shifts. “I’m going to kiss you, ‘kay?”
“Okay?” He chuckles, on the verge of bursting into something worse. Since when do they ask before—oh.
A hand presses against his marred shoulder, the other tilting his chin up, and suddenly Makoto cannot recall any previous kiss nor his own name.
In lieu of their usual greediness, as if they had been starved for so long they had forgotten how to be human, how not to rage and hurt—Kagerou’s lips feel soft against his, and he finds himself closing his eyes, leaning in just enough to offer some kind of flimsy permission. He doesn’t hold Kagerou back, as he has never learned how to grab without tugging and digging his nails so deep they leave marks.
Instead, he allows himself to be held, for the hand on his chin to slowly trace the shape of his jaw; there is no mention of the scars, even the one underneath Kagerou’s other hand—what for? They’re a part of the man he loves, what else is there to do about them right now? And Makoto can only hope (what a foolish word, as if there was a part for luck in whatever complicated mess their lives are) that it’s some kind of neutral acceptance. It’d be fine, he thinks, for them to be only that.
Painful memories, and nothing more.
“I think we’ve been dating for real, all this time,” is what comes out of Kagerou’s mouth, as he breaks the kiss.
Foolishly, all Makoto can reply is: “I feel lightheaded—your brother wasn’t joking about not bathing for too long in the onsen when you’re not used to it…”
“I can say it, then? I told you so.”
“Urg, help me get out before I faint.”
“Fine, you’re a nuisance. I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Leaning heavily against Kagerou, Makoto lets himself be escorted back to the shower area, finding a seat to accommodate his body—”that’s not how I intended on having you see my dick for the first time.”
“Trust me, I’ve been hanging there my whole life, I’ve seen more dicks than you ever will.”
“Good to know, I guess.”
Wrapping yourself in a towel when you’re burning up is not like the best move, not that Makoto cares much about that, especially when an eager voice resonates into the place seconds later.
“So, was the bath nice and relaxing?”
“Big bro. You better run.”
“I was trying to help! That’s all!”
Grabbing a colorful bucket on the floor, Kagerou throws it at his brother, missing (probably on purpose), only to mumble a faint: “yeah, thanks, but also get the fuck out.”
“I’ll leave two cans of milk for you right there—okay, I’m going for real now.”
“Can you believe that? I’ll leave milk for you,” Kagerou imitates his sibling, making a face as he rubs the back of his neck, “you’re alright?”
“Somehow, the bath might have actually done me some good.”
“You’re forbidden to say that to my older brother, ever.”
As Makoto stands up, eager to get his clothing back, he walks past Kagerou, carefully as passing out would be beyond humiliating.
“Am I allowed to say that it’s fine though? Us dating for real,” as he shrugs off the towel, folding it for the time being (where is he meant to put it once he’s done getting changed though, urg), grabbing one thing after another from the locker, “If we were asking the rest of our little friends, what do you think their response would be? Half of them would blurt out they thought we were already together, or so I’m afraid.”
“Wanna bet?”
“1000 yen on Hana and Sakura being convinced we were dating months ago, I’m not willing to risk Hikaru or Tamaki. Daiji is kind of the wild card there.”
“2000 yen that he had no fucking idea.”
“How cruel you are towards your own twin, deal.”
“I bet Hikaru has knowledge of this, that nosy fucker is like a psychic—he has found out all of our blood types already.”
“Unsurprisingly,” with an exhausted drop in his voice, Makoto finishes getting dressed, not bothering with the knitted vest he wore over his shirt. Instead, he shoves it inside his bag, and that’s good enough for tonight. “How long do we have until our ride home?”
“Check your phone instead of asking me?”
“Tired.”
“I don’t care, urg, gimme a sec.”
It takes Kagerou over five minutes to get dressed, even longer to finally grab his phone—all that time, he’s definitely waiting for Makoto to rummage through his bag instead. Which he refuses to do.
“We have thirty minutes to walk there, which is fine.”
“Walking, really?”
“I’m not carrying you. So, yeah, walking.”
Staring at the ceiling in agony (he’s fine), Makoto lets out a dramatic sigh, only for something metallic to flicker in front of his eyes. As he lowers them, he notices Kagerou’s favorite usual necklace, now on him.
“Said you wanted something in exchange for this, so here you go.”
“That’s not a ring—”
“It’s my favorite chain! It has way more value than any ring, come on.”
“Fine, I’ll give it back to you later though. It’s too precious for me to keep.”
“You’re a nuisance. But thanks. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
As a hand grabs his, starting to tug him towards the entrance, Makoto barely has time to grab the milk left as an offering by Ikki. “What is real dating like though? I’ve only done the version where it’s sex in exchange for gifts, and I’m—if we’re dating for real I’d rather not have sex actually. Don’t know why, it’s stupid—”
“Drink your milk, you’re still lightheaded, moron,” there is a reassuring squeeze, and Makoto wants to ask how he’s meant to open anything considering both his hands are busy, not that Kagerou gives him time to reply, “As if I had a clue either. And who cares about sex. I just want you.”
“Aw, that’s kind of sweet. Shouldn’t we say goodbye to your parents before eloping though?”
“Say that again and I’m dumping you, I’m not kidding. You’re right though, okay pretend to be a normal person for one minute, we grab our shoes and we’re gone, fine?”
“Fine~ not a fan of your parents, or parents in general, but I like Ikki.”
“Divorce.”
“No, no, first we elope then we divorce, it’s in that order, my little bat.”
“You’re the worst person I know, and yet here we are. Also, I don’t a fuck if my parents like you or not—Big bro is not bad at judging people though, and he seems to appreciate you back. Anyway.”
As they sit together on the platform, sharing a bench, finally getting to get the drinks left by Ikki for them earlier, Makoto feels like it went okay. Not great, although things are never fantastic when he’s involved in human relationships, but still.
“I guess that what I’m feeling for you is love,” Kagerou blurts out without any warning, causing Makoto to choke on his drink, “for lack of a better term.”
“Oh my, a late night confession. Warn me next time.”
“The confession was when I fucking kissed you in the bath, dumbass.”
“Hm, then, if Kagerou’s feelings are called ‘love’, I suppose mine should be some kind of— loving you back ? Or something equally perplexing to the both of us.”
“Great, that’s cool. Why do people want to name their emotions anyway, that’s bullshit.”
“Kagerou,” with a mischievous expression, Makoto leans until his head is resting on Kagerou’ shoulder, “you’re mine now.”
He doesn’t expect the fingers running through his hair, nor the small ‘hm, yeah, I guess’, which probably makes things better. Perhaps Kagerou will surprise him by not leaving like everyone else.
Time will tell, he supposes, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oi, don’t fall asleep on me!”
“But Kagerou is so comfortable… And you’re the one playing with my hair right now.”
“It’s soft, how is that my fault, hm?!”
And thus, they wait.
Together.