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It starts out as a tickle.
Ten-year-old Jyushimatsu reaches over to scratch the itch behind his knee, his eyes still trained on the baseball flying through the air. The breath catches in his throat, trapped by anticipation. In the next instant, he jumps up, mitt poised above his head.
"Baseball!" he cries, a triumphant smile on his face as the ball smacks the palm of his baseball mitt. The crowd around him screams in exhilaration, filling his ears and his brain.
His brothers shout in glee beside him, congratulating him and thumping him on the back. Their words muddle into each other, but their exhortations ring in his ears and swell his pride and he is so excited he could explode!
Jyushimatsu's mouth curls into a huge grin. As they return the baseball down to the playing field, his mind wanders back to the itch still behind his knee. Didn't he already take care of that?
He's still buzzed from the hype of the baseball game on the car ride home. Half of his brothers are asleep--the ones who aren't are watching Todomatsu play some game on their father's phone.
Jyushimatsu peers down. The skin under his fingers has reddened greatly. Oops. He puts his hands under his legs and sits on them to stop scratching. That's what his mother told him. Scratching wouldn't do anything but make it worse. A temporary solution to a permanent problem.
It doesn't work for too long.
"Stop kicking the floor, Jyushimatsu," Ichimatsu waves his hand at his brother. "You're making Todo get everything wrong."
"Sorry, sorry!"
---
It starts out as a couple of stares.
"Look at him."
"Gross."
"What's wrong with his skin?"
Jyushimatsu's back is to them. He clutches his lunchbox to his chest and swallows down a rude retort. He can feel Osomatsu's hand on his back, pushing him out of the classroom.
"It's called eczema, you idiots," Osomatsu yells at the dark spaces behind him. Jyushimatsu's arms drop to his sides, lunchbox hanging by a yellow cloth. He bites his lip and smiles at Osomatsu.
"Niisan, let's just go."
Osomatsu's gaze meets his, and Jyushimatsu can see all his rage and empathy and disappointment that swirls behind his eyes. He glances back towards the staring children before Osomatsu turns and leads his brother down the hallway.
They get to the roof. The summer sun beats down on their heads.
How Jyushimatsu hates summer, because he has to wear a T-shirt and shorts and everyone can see the red, angry lesions behind his knees and on his arms and down his neck.
How Jyushimatsu hates summer, because they can smell the stench--sometimes it's that of eggs, sometimes it's that of rotting flesh.
How Jyushimatsu hates summer, because he is so exposed and everyone runs away.
Osomatsu closes the door behind them, his red lunchbox hooked on one hand. "It's okay, Jyushimatsu. Does it itch now?"
He shakes his head and sits down against the wire fencing around the roof. He undoes the cloth and opens his lunchbox. It's plain, bright yellow, like blinding joy. Osomatsu sits right beside him, already perspiring from the heat.
"...You don't need to come with me every day, Osomatsu-niisan!" Jyushimatsu says. He forces a smile down at his rice. "I mean, it's just a small problem. And we'll leave elementary school soon. Then I can wear pants every day."
Osomatsu is still quick to protest. "It's not a small problem! Those kids are such jerks." He opens his own lunchbox, a red checkered one with cute brown bears on the cover. "How can they say things like that just because you look different?"
There it is. The itch.
Jyushimatsu's fingers tremble as he grips his chopsticks in his hand. Don't do it.
"You didn't bring your lotion, right?" Osomatsu has food in his mouth now, and Jyushimatsu still hasn't touched his food even though he opened his lunchbox two minutes earlier. "I'll bring it for you if you forget next time."
"S'ok. I don't need it."
Jyushimatsu shovels rice into his mouth and looks away towards the rooftops of other buildings. He taps a pale pink patch on his knee with his fingertips to extinguish the flames that flicker under his skin.
"Don't worry, Jyushimatsu. I'll beat up all of those guys."
"Niisan, no!" Jyushimatsu looks at Osomatsu with such pain that the latter's mischievous gaze softens to mush. He swallows and grins. "I don't want to hurt people. Really, I don't mind!"
There's the scrtch scrtch of his fingernails down his neck, dried skin flaking off. He wants to crumple.
Osomatsu pretends not to notice. He keeps his head down, wipes sweat from his brow and says nothing more.
Jyushimatsu lifts his unconscious hand from his neck and returns it to his lunchbox. Every inch of his skin crawls with dissatisfaction, but he pushes more food down his throat and tries not to think about it.
---
It starts out as the spread of needles over his skin.
His eyes haven't really adjusted to the light of the bathroom, but he honestly can't bring himself to care less--he just needs to get it out of him, he just needs to touch them once--and it's like magic sparks from his fingers and sends goosebumps all over his skin.
It's absolute euphoria.
Jyushimatsu knows he should have better self-control. He's not ten anymore. He's twenty three, two years past the formal age of adult, and here he is at some awful hour in the morning with his legs on fire and his fingers dashed with dried blood and skin.
He pries his hands away from his legs. The itch screams at him, begging him to continue giving in, springing up in painful, raised lines. Tiny droplets of blood fill the holes in his skin. Not again, please, he thinks, but it's his own fault anyway.
He rises from the floor, where his pajama pants remain, and runs his hands under the faucet before stepping into the shower area. The cold water hits his skin like searing hot lava, stinging every open wound down his thighs and getting into every little crevice of his skin. Jyushimatsu winces, his hands shaking, fingers twitching at the returning urge to satisfy.
He dries off and pulls his pants back on. Maybe he should invest in some duct tape to hold his hands together in his sleep.
The toilet door opens with a clack of wood, startling the fifth brother.
"Jyushimatsu...?"
"Hi hi, Choromatsu-niisan!" Jyushimatsu's voice comes out chipper as always, despite the itch slithering up his legs. A slight ache is beginning to settle in his calves. He can nearly feel them swelling as they speak. "Did I wake you up?"
"No, no. Just need the bathroom." Choromatsu yawns, his voice laced with fatigue.
His gaze lowers to Jyushimatsu's pants. His face falls a little, eyes still clouded by sleep--but Jyushimatsu knows it. The sympathetic glance of the unaffected older brother.
"Bad night, huh?"
Of course, the answer is obvious. Without a word, Jyushimatsu leaves the bathroom and flops back into bed. Already, his legs are burning again, and all he wants to do is scream.
He hates nights like these, too.
He struggles against the prickling and the wetness of his skin and closes his eyes. Where's his lotion again? That stuff doesn't even help, does it? How could it do anything against these horrible monsters that nip and dance on his skin, willing him to keep breaking himself down or to carve raw, rough lines into himself again and again?
Still, he reaches for the bottle by his pillow.
Choromatsu gets back in moments, but he doesn't immediately lie back down.
"Jyushimatsu?" he asks again, his voice subdued by the quiet of the room. "I got the bandages if you need them."
"Ah--no, no, it's fine," Jyushimatsu sits up and rolls his pant legs up. The fabric comes away dotted with blood. He doesn't care. He just wants it to leave.
"You'll stain the futon again. Put the lotion and the bandages on. I'll find your other pair of pants for you."
"...Thanks, niisan."
Jyushimatsu slaps the medicated lotion onto his crusty, heavy skin, resisting the way it calls to him. He almost relishes in the way the lotion stings his skin--it hurts, but still, he'd rather be anything but itchy. He feels Choromatsu tap his shoulder and stands to change. He's glad he does. It feels good to be dry.
"Choromatsu-niisan?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think I'll get better?"
A pause. Choromatsu's hands move in the darkness to wrap the gauze dressing over the open skin on his calves. "You can't really get better from it. Eczema is a hereditary condition. It'll be with you all your life."
Ah, he knows it.
"B-But, it doesn't mean you won't stop suffering." Choromatsu's face is visible in the darkness, giving him a smile. "You've had worse times, right? It's hard but...these flares will pass eventually. They always do."
He finishes covering the last part of it and places the dressing into a first-aid kit before pushing it off towards the wall.
Jyushimatsu smiles back at his brother. "I know," He closes his eyes. "But...it's been fourteen years."
Choromatsu squeezes his hand, the lotion making his hand slippery. He suddenly straightens. "You know, I'm feeling hungry. Want some instant noodles?"
Eh??
"Uh...yeah! That sounds good!" Jyushimatsu's mouth is surprisingly tired from smiling. Oh, he's doing this so I don't have to suffer alone in bed for the next hour. Thank you, niisan!
Choromatsu motions for him to stay quiet, and the two leave the room.
"Do you still get asked about it?"
"Nah...not when we're all together. My baseball uniform also covers all of it."
Choromatsu flicks on the light switch in the kitchen and pours water into the flask.
"But when I wear my shorts, sometimes people still stare. I don't mind though! It doesn't matter to me!" Jyushimatsu's smile is less wide, but at least it's completely genuine now. "You guys all taught me that."
Choromatsu smiles at him. "Yeah. We did. And we're glad you're okay with yourself now."
The smell of wet seasoning wafts through the air. Jyushimatsu pours his own cup of noodles and adds some salt on the top. For a few blissful moments, the itch stays quiet.
Or, well--maybe he's just not paying enough attention to make it feel like a big deal. Because Choromatsu and instant ramen seem like a better, nicer thing to focus on.
"Thank you, Choromatsu-niisan!"
"Thank you for the food."