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Their matching red scarves flutter in the wind. Snow crunches beneath their feet, lands on their lashes, and piles atop their knit hats like heaps of powdered sugar. Beneath his gloves, Ritsu's fingers are burning hot. If he weren't such a hopeless opportunist he'd shove them into his coat pockets to preserve warmth. Instead, his arms sway at his sides in a listless rhythm.
They're walking home together in the middle of a snowstorm, him and Shigeo. A sudden, unexpected phenomenon: one of the worst blizzards to come. They're aptly unprepared, slogging through dense snow in thin school uniform pants and sneakers. Ritsu's socks cling wetly to his feet; each step feels like trudging through cold slush.
The wind hurls a flurry of snow at Ritsu's face and roars incessantly in his ears. It should be an annoyance, but he's grateful for it. It keeps him company. Replaces the deafening silence between him and his brother.
Ritsu should say something.
He doesn't.
Talking to Shigeo used to be easy. It isn't, now, not since the incident all those years ago. Ever since then, it feels as if his brother has imprisoned himself in a glass case. Ritsu will dare to veer closer, test the glass, tap it. "Do you want to talk? You can talk to me about anything, nii-san." He'd shatter it if Shigeo would allow him to, but Shigeo has never once taken him up on his offer. Ritsu figures he must like the glass—more than he likes Ritsu.
So Ritsu's had to get accustomed to the impenetrable distance. Distance between fingers, between bodies, between breaths. Shigeo exhales, Ritsu inhales. The cold air materializes before them in fleeting white wisps. Out of Shigeo, into Ritsu. They are one and continuous; it's the only connection he's allowed.
Ritsu hangs by Shigeo's side, close enough he can pretend to feel his brother's radiating warmth. It always surprises him, the way they could be so physically close, just a breadth's distance apart, and yet that space seems to stretch and expand endlessly like a pocketed black hole.
He stares at his brother and his brother stares at the snow all around them with a sort of childlike wonder. How could he be so enthralled by the same sight he's seen every year? It's the same snow, the same winter. But Ritsu supposes he isn't one to talk; year after year, past summer, spring, fall, and winter, Ritsu has been fascinated by the sight of Shigeo over and over again.
It started when they were young; Ritsu remembers it so vividly the memory makes him ache. Snowballs floating in the air, encircling all around him like a juggler performing at a circus. Him and Shigeo, making snow angels, their laughter ringing bright, tinkling like bells. Now the only conversations between them is all the words that go unsaid.
Ritsu blows into his gloved hands, rubs them together. The cold settles into his bones—a wicked, biting thing. It makes the heart crave. Ritsu swings his arms with more force and the sleeves of their arms brush together. Shigeo adjusts himself, moves a centimeter away. Ritsu pretends to be unaffected as the sting in his chest goes ignored. He's had a lot of practice over the years; he's gotten rather good at pretending the distance doesn't hurt.
Experience might make him wiser, but it doesn't seem to hamper the stupidity of his heart. He steals a glance at Shigeo. His brother's cheeks are bitten red, the shade of fresh apple peelings. Ritsu isn't naive enough to believe the flush is caused by anything other than the nipping cold, but he's hopeless enough to hope he was partly responsible for it.
He likes to believe he's allowed this fantasy. After all, he'll never be allowed to indulge in anything else. Ritsu thinks about his brother's flushed cheeks the whole way home.
The cold seems to invite itself in with them. Back home, Ritsu dusts the snow off his hat and coat, peels off his wet gloves before slipping off his shoes and socks. One frantic, apologetic phone call later and Ritsu learns they will be the only ones home, at least until their parents can manage to weather through the inches of snow that have barricaded the roads. If Shigeo feels strongly about them being stranded alone together, he doesn't show it.
Outside, the wind is howling. Inside, silence punctuates the air. Lights flicker on, off, on, off, and it's hard to tell whether it's the storm affecting the electricity or if Shigeo's powers are going awry. Their rooms are right next door; Ritsu presses his ear to the walls, listening for any signs of life. He hears nothing. He feels like a voyeur in his own home. His brother is a shadow of the person he used to be, but, then, maybe he doesn't know his brother at all. Maybe he never has.
Ritsu has compartmentalized the event: Shigeo, his brother, and the other "Shigeo," who's not his brother. More specifically, can't be his brother, because the only Shigeo he's ever known has been dutifully gentle and kind, and the other "Shigeo" had been nothing more than destruction personified: blood, cracked bones, cracked earth. To believe they’re one and the same is to believe his brother is capable of harm, and Ritsu refuses to believe that.
He draws back the curtains. The window is piled high with snow, the pale gray sky peeking out above it. He seats himself under the heated kotatsu table and lets the warmth thaw his legs. When he inhales, it is only his own breath that swirls around in his lungs. The air is crisp, chilly. Their house lacks central heating. Ritsu hopes his brother is all bundled up; he wishes he were here next to him.
His fingers are still frigid. Ritsu's body runs cold, nothing like the burning furnace that is his brother. When they were younger, Shigeo would warm Ritsu's hands by entwining their fingers together, sharing heat.
But now, Ritsu's hands have outgrown his older brother's, and there's no one left to warm them for him. He settles his hands on top of his thighs beneath the kotatsu as he rests his cheek on the smooth table.
With a crackle, the lights flicker out. A pale glow seeps into his room from the window. Ritsu's first instinct is to call for Shigeo; he receives nothing in response.
He rises and steps out into the dark hallway. No light comes through from under Shigeo's door. Ritsu ventures towards it, bare feet creaking against wood, announcing his arrival. He hesitates for a second before cracking the door open ajar.
"Nii-san?" Inside Shigeo's room is much darker and colder than Ritsu's own. He squints, trying to make out any recognizable shapes. "Are you okay?"
Silence. Then, a beat later: "Yes," Shigeo murmurs. More silence. "...But the power is out."
The power being out is one thing—no lights, no electricity—but what's soon to come is the looming cold. Ritsu lingers by the doorway, fingers tracing the cool wooden frame.
His eyes adjust to the darkness. Shigeo's on his bed, blankets covered all around him, perfectly cocooned. Ritsu imagines the heat trapped beneath the layers, all of Shigeo’s body warmth surrounding him.
He should leave. He doesn't want to leave. Shigeo told him he was okay, which means that's his cue to leave—but two bodies are warmer than one, and no one understands that better than Ritsu. No one understands the boundless warmth that exudes from Shigeo better than Ritsu.
Ritsu takes a step into the room and feels as if he's trespassing.
"Aren't you cold?" he asks, but it's not really a question. "It'll only get colder in here, since the power's out. Your room is already colder than mine."
"It's a little cold," Shigeo admits.
"Only a little?"
Ritsu takes another step closer. His nerves feel encased in ice.
There are a lot of questions Ritsu thinks about. Do you hate me? is one of them. Do you know I'm afraid of you? is another. Will it hurt you to know I'm afraid of you? pops up occasionally, too. But of all terrible questions to ask, the one Ritsu utters is:
"Can I stay here with you?"
He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth.
"—since it's cold," he adds, as if it makes it any better, any less vulnerable. "Can I stay with you, since it's cold, and it'll be warmer with the both of us in here?"
Silence follows soon after. It shouldn't be surprising; Ritsu stopped talking, so naturally silence should follow. But this silence is dreadful, innervating. It was stupid of him to even suggest it—of course Shigeo would be against the idea; why would he be interested in staying together? It's a childish desire, a lonely one, something Ritsu has always wanted, him and him alone. "Nevermind, we don't have to do that, I'm sure it'll turn—"
"Okay."
Ritsu stares in shock. His lips move while his mind sputters. "Really?"
Shigeo moves aside on the bed in what Ritsu could only assume to be an invitation. Ritsu climbs atop it slowly, hesitantly. It's a bed so similar to his own; same sheets, same mattress, yet the very idea of it being Shigeo's makes it feel foreign, unfamiliar, exciting. There's the pillow Shigeo rests his head on, there's the blanket that wraps itself around Shigeo like a second skin, the sheets that feel the contours of his body. Everything here feels like it’s closer to Shigeo than Ritsu’s ever been.
Shigeo slowly lowers himself onto the bed and rests his head on a corner of the pillow. He glances over at Ritsu as if expecting him to do the same. Ritsu follows suit, scared, excited, scared about being excited, as Shigeo covers them both in his dense, fluffy blanket.
Shigeo turns onto his side, facing the wall, leaving Ritsu staring at the curve of his neck. A sliver of space remains between them, and Ritsu doesn’t dare close it.
What he's wanted is right here, right in front of him, and yet Ritsu doesn't feel he has the right to bridge that gap. Maybe he's selfish for wanting more; maybe this is the limit. Isn't he being ungrateful? Greedy?
He never expected Shigeo to agree to this. He couldn't have known, so it's okay that his heart is racing in his chest, it's okay that he can't pry his eyes away from the exposed skin of his brother's nape.
Shigeo was kind enough to allow them to lay together, and Ritsu doesn't want to take advantage of that fact.
He'll have to learn to be content with this. This, and even less than this.