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There’s only so much temptation a man can be expected to successfully endure. If anyone asks, Karamatsu will insist his judgement was impaired, then immediately retract that claim, because Osomatsu is surprisingly sensitive about these sorts of things. Karamatsu might be a sinful man, but he’s not that kind of guilt guy.
In a way, it’s Jyuushimatsu’s fault, or even Todomatsu’s at a stretch. After all, Karamatsu first hears it over the fog of pain induced by Todomatsu’s frustrated menu toss: Try it, nii-san. And maybe it’s the hypnotic quality of Jyuushimatsu’s voice (CV. Ono Daisuke), or perhaps the strain of squinting with sparkling eyes for several hours a day, but there’s a dizzy ache dragging his consciousness away along with roughly four litres of blood, and Karamatsu sees a very strange vision.
Try it, Osomatsu.
Osomatsu’s lips are parted slightly, red and slick, and he slides them over the flushed end of Karamatsu’s cocktail frankfurter with a breathy sigh. Karamatsu has mixed feelings about this dream of his; surely something larger, or even just a regular dinner frankfurter, would be of a more appropriate size?
It only seems right that the biggest eater in the family should be served the largest food portions, so this becomes indication number one that Karamatsu is indeed dreaming. If it were up to him he would definitely have chosen something larger – perhaps one of those thick, cheese-filled bratwursts that explode with liquid umami when you bite into them.
Evidently the creator of the dream doesn’t think much of this brilliant idea, because before Karamatsu can put forth his suggestion, Osomatsu is on his back on their futon, licking clumps of cream from his teeth while Karamatsu pushes a strawberry through them. The strawberry is acceptably huge this time, yet Karamatsu isn’t permitted to enjoy the sight for long. In the blink of an eye, he’s been whisked away and deposited back on the Sutabaa floor, just in time to hear Todomatsu shooing away his co-workers.
Karamatsu has never been more grateful for artistic license and television broadcasting standards, because by the time they drop their pants, he needs the pixelation.
So that’s how it starts. He tells himself it’s just another one of those dreams, like the time he’d pictured Osomatsu reacting to Hatabou’s initiation ritual with a rather different set of screams. He’d poked Osomatsu there once just to be sure, and while Osomatsu had immediately responded with a jab of his own, the resulting inability to sit for a week had been offset by the knowledge that Osomatsu did not actually take well to things being stuffed unexpectedly up his rear end.
In reality, Osomatsu is the messiest eater of them all, so Karamatsu doesn’t feel a pressing urge to confirm or deny his dream. But it’s not too long after when they’re seated around the low table, bleeding out of their eyes in an effort to stay awake, and Osomatsu’s voice filters through to Karamatsu at the most inopportune moment: …be eaten if you sleep! By me!
This time, Karamatsu can safely say he can’t be held responsible for the images in his mind there. It’s a deliberately misleading statement, and he tries very hard not to think about the various ways it could be interpreted. That is to say, he might be assailed with flashes of sensation, of Osomatsu mouthing at his shoulders, a light press of teeth against the inside of his thigh, but he doesn’t linger. It’s a momentary misunderstanding, the sort that’s unavoidable in this fallen world, this depraved cage of flesh that houses his soul. Karamatsu is more than his earthly desires.
Five minutes later, Osomatsu manages to snag one of the cream-filled Imagawayaki from Choromatsu’s desperate grasp. He crams it into his mouth with all the urgency of a man whose five younger brothers are currently after his head, and naturally cream goes everywhere. Choromatsu screeches at the waste, Todomatsu shrieks at the mess, and Jyuushimatsu happily stuffs his soiled sleeve in his mouth. It’s hard to believe that a single Imagawayaki could hold so much white gloop.
In the commotion that follows, Karamatsu disappears to the bathroom, sinks onto the toilet seat, and puts his head in his hands. Osomatsu’s satisfied slurps are echoing through his head, and Karamatsu has this strange feeling of inadequacy about him, as if he’s somehow lost to the Imagawayaki. It’s a ridiculous thought, yet he can’t shake it; he would never lose with regards to presentation, but he hasn’t invested enough time in making sure he tastes delicious, and he isn’t sure he can explode with pale goodness the way Imagawayaki can. Clearly, something has to be done.
Valentine’s Day, Karamatsu feels, is the perfect opportunity to test his theory. While they still beg Totoko-chan for chocolates every year, the sad reality is that if they don’t take matters into their own hands, there will be no chocolate for anyone. Again, it’s Jyuushimatsu’s fault, or moreso Todomatsu’s – a stack of gifts that large is doomed to attract suspicion, especially when they’re signed from ‘girls’ with equally suspicious names. Then again, Karamatsu had simply accepted it as one of those Totty things until Jyuushimatsu had grabbed one, swallowed it whole, and declared, “You’re a good cook, Totty!”
After that, it was only a matter of time before the Great Matsuno Chocolatier Contest became an annual tradition. This year, Karamatsu knows he has the best concept: himself, covered in a thick layer of dark chocolate. With any luck, Osomatsu will be tempted enough to try some, and Karamatsu can finally, finally rid himself of the fluttery feeling in his stomach whenever he looks at his brother these days. He enlists Ichimatsu and Jyuushimatsu to help; Choromatsu’s out, and Totty had screamed when he’d appeared. Karamatsu doesn’t understand their youngest sometimes. Perhaps Todomatsu was simply overwhelmed by the sculpted perfection of Karamatsu’s stomach? It is a very nice stomach, if he must say so himself, and he’s definitely caught Todomatsu looking at it before.
He watches Ichimatsu stir the melted chocolate with fond affection. Ichimatsu’s terribly enthusiastic about this; he’s grinning in a way that makes his teeth look almost pointed, and when he hands the pot to Jyuushimatsu, his palms are sweating.
“Ooh, that’s hot!” Jyuushimatsu raises the pot above his head. “Ready, Karamatsu-nii-san?”
Karamatsu raises his hand to his chin and strikes a pose. “I was born re---owowowoww!”
Freshly-melted chocolate is hot. Very hot, in fact. Karamatsu can feel his whole face turning red. He’s vaguely aware of Ichimatsu crooning something in the background – keep going, Jyuushimatsu – but there’s chocolate all over his skin and pooling in his ears, and he only has the presence of mind to stumble tearfully over to Osomatsu and cry for help.
“Not now, Karamatsu.” Osomatsu reels in another chocolate from Todomatsu’s hoard.
“You’re just reaping what you sow,” Choromatsu tells him, completely unsympathetic, and sits down next to Todomatsu. He glances back at Karamatsu one more time and relents. “Go fill the bathtub and sit in it for a while.”
Karamatsu sniffles and nods. He’s about to write the whole plan off as a bust when Osomatsu, still concentrated on pilfering chocolates, cracks a piece off Karamatsu’s skin and pops it in his mouth. “Good chocolate,” he says between bites. “Bit salty, though.”
Karamatsu puts his fingers in his mouth and sucks on them. “Huh, it is pretty good.”
“Osomatsu-niisan…” Ichimatsu’s voice is a little strained.
Osomatsu ignores him, instead going for Karamatsu’s other hand. He holds that between his teeth as he lines up for another attempt on the large box labelled Todozoff. “Why is it salty, though? Were you trying to do a salted caramel or something? Those are pretty popular these days.”
“Osomatsu-niisan……” Ichimatsu’s a little desperate now, wheezing as he speaks. “Look around.”
Osomatsu hooks the box at last. “One moment, Ichimatsu. Your onii-chan’s busy right now.”
This isn’t quite the way Karamatsu had expected things to turn out. He’s burnt half his body, for one, and Osomatsu isn’t licking chocolate off his stomach, but he does have his tongue firmly around Karamatsu’s pinky, which might be even better. “Bring another pot,” he squeaks, unsure whether he’s more excited or in pain. “White chocolate this time.”
“I don’t really want to do this anymore,” Ichimatsu says. He seems to have lost all of his original enthusiasm for the job; he must be tired from the first batch. Keep it up, burazaa, Karamatsu urges silently, then realises his line could have been a little misleading. Not you, he tells little Karamatsu. His little Karamatsu has no problems keeping itself up.
Jyuushimatsu races over. “One more super ultra game-winning home run!”
The second round hurts even more than the first, and Karamatsu’s stuck cleaning chocolate from the carpet for months afterwards, but overall, he counts it a grand success.
Heartened by his initial victory, Karamatsu follows up V-Day with a string of bold attacks. They’re having sushi for dinner, and he manages to snag the last piece of salmon sashimi. “I’m the eldest,” Osomatsu hisses, snapping his chopsticks threateningly.
“Did you want it?” Karamatsu asks, making sure to widen his eyes so he looks surprised. He holds out his own chopsticks in a gesture of peace. “Here.”
As expected, Osomatsu leans forward and kisses the slick salmon flesh before slurping it down. “Lucky~ Thanks, Karamatsu!” He’s far too easy, and Karamatsu is finding it far too difficult to keep himself from watching the bob of Osomatsu’s throat as he swallows.
Later, they’re at a photoshoot and one of the assistants hands them each a ripe red cherry to fellate. “Congratulations on becoming used goods,” she says, smirking, though Karamatsu has never felt newer, dressed head-to-toe in a graduation gown he hasn’t yet earned. He holds up his cherry, blowing a kiss to the camera, and from the stunned look on the photographer’s face he knows his pose was perfect. It turns out that Osomatsu hadn’t gotten the same memo, though, because they catch him just about to bite through his cherry, staring thoughtfully at Karamatsu’s as if he’d like to try and pop that one, too. Karamatsu flicks his wrist and dangles the cherry over his brother’s nose.
“Would you like to partake of my bounty?”
The others throw their graduation caps at him, but Osomatsu’s lips part and he stretches forwards just slightly, tongue flicking out to curl around the base of the cherry. Karamatsu watches him with vague curiosity.
“You’re drooling, Shittymatsu.” This time, Ichimatsu flings a plush cat at him; Karamatsu catches it and tosses it back. Ichimatsu likes to play these sorts of games – it must be Jyuushimatsu’s influence – but right now, Karamatsu is preoccupied with the bulge forming in Osomatsu’s cheek as he strips the cherry of its stem.
Osomatsu sticks his tongue out proudly, presents Karamatsu with a cherry stem looped with his own into an impossible knot. It’s the same sort he’s seen before on decorative cards, two threads twined around one another in an infinite circle. “Cool, right?”
“It looks like an abalone shell,” says Jyuushimatsu, bouncing in for a closer look. Over Choromatsu’s stupefied how?! and subsequent well, I suppose that is what it’s named after, Karamatsu feels his vision go oddly blurry. His head swims, his heart pounding in quick rhythm against his chest. If he were more educated, some might label him touched, but Karamatsu doesn’t actually know what the knot is supposed to mean, so his symptoms are better attributed to the rush of blood down south. In the heat of the moment, another of the strange visions clouds his mind, and the Osomatsu of Karamatsu’s dreams licks his lips before closing in and showing Karamatsu all the other great things he’s capable of manipulating with his tongue.
Once more, Karamatsu is assailed with a strange sense of unease. He feels, irrationally, that this isn’t the sort of dream that should be associated with cherry stems. They’re too small, too thin, and though he’s aware they would be harder to tie into knots if they were thick and long the way instinct tells him they should be, he still wishes Osomatsu was doing his bendy tongue magic with, say, bananas, instead.
In spite of his reservations, Karamatsu emerges feeling refreshed and content. “A new day, a new me,” he declares, spreading his arms out to catch the sunlight.
“Why the heck?!”
He had forgotten that Osomatsu was next to him.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Osomatsu rages, chewing on Karamatsu’s finger. His voice is a tad muffled because of that, but the gist of his words is clear enough. He spits out Karamatsu’s hand and wipes his mouth. “What was that for?”
Karamatsu has no excuse. “Forgive me, burazaa. I was lost, engaged in a hopeless battle against the wilfulness of my loins – ”
And Osomatsu’s gone. He’s hanging between Choromatsu and Todomatsu, begging for cash, leaving Karamatsu standing there bereft, a thousand words on his tongue and nowhere to put them.
In time, it becomes routine to offer. Walking down the street one afternoon, Osomatsu mentions something about having a craving for eggplant, so Karamatsu digs into his pants and whips one out. “Here you go.”
“Wow.” Osomatsu’s eyes dilate; he’s almost drooling. “That is one huge eggplant.”
“Why do you have an eggplant in your pocket?” Choromatsu looks fit to burst. “Your pants are way too tight to fit anything but your tiny – ”
“What are those pants anyway?” Todomatsu shrieks, cutting Choromatsu off to prevent a breach of broadcasting standards. The camera pans up over the offending pants. “Are you a psychopath? Where even did you buy those?”
“Never mind that,” Ichimatsu says, eyes wide and horrified. “Where did he get an eggplant that shape from?”
Choromatsu turns green. “The colour is a bit off too.”
“Where are the censor bars?” Todomatsu’s racing around waving his hands in front of the eggplant as if that will shield it from view. “Is the guy in charge of pixelation home sick today?”
Karamatsu has no idea what they’re talking about. “Here you go,” he says, thrusting it closer to Osomatsu. His voice seems a little higher than usual, so he coughs and tries again. This time, it’s too breathy, like he’s just run errands for their mother, but before he can try a third time, Osomatsu takes the eggplant in both hands and crams it into his mouth. It’s too big for him; his mouth stretches wide around it, and Karamatsu is struck by this blinding sense of triumph. Their eyes meet.
He doesn’t know what sort of expression is on his face at that moment, but Osomatsu’s jaw goes slack, and for the briefest moment, he looks terrified. A second later, he spits out the vegetable. “I changed my mind.”
Oh, thinks Karamatsu, and blinks back the sharp rejection stinging at his eyes.
It becomes routine to offer, but Osomatsu gets pickier, refusing everything from chicken wings to sips of Karamatsu’s whiskey – “Barley tea,” coughs Todomatsu – to bite-sized pieces of Kobe beef. Choromatsu rushes in to tell them they’ve been chosen for a crêpe collaboration again, so Karamatsu spends a lot of time designing his, eventually settling on Osomatsu’s favourite yakisoba. Then Osomatsu decides he wants a sweet crêpe. Karamatsu doesn’t mind missing out on seeing Osomatsu suck on long noodles if it means he can relive the strawberries-and-cream dream, but he doesn’t realise at the time that this is going to become a pattern – Osomatsu keeps smearing whipped cream around his mouth, but it’s not Karamatsu’s cream, and for some reason this is an important distinction, now.
“He’s getting desperate,” Ichimatsu comments, after another unsuccessful attempt to feed Osomatsu a Muscat grape.
Karamatsu doesn’t understand. Rarely, Osomatsu will accept a sandwich from him, only to tear it in half viciously with his teeth. It sends a shiver of fear down Karamatsu’s spine; his visions begin to take on a distinctly nightmarish tone, marked by Osomatsu spitting grape seeds at Karamatsu so hard he bruises all through his heart. Even so, Karamatsu wakes with sticky hands and flushed cheeks, grasping for something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
He redoubles his efforts, hoping he’ll be able to catch Osomatsu off-guard, but every time he darts closer Osomatsu finds something to do. The most galling thing about it is that Osomatsu has no qualms about sneaking bites of Choromatsu’s dishes, or sharing a hot dog with Todomatsu. Even when he’s bulldozing his way through a life-sized gingerbread house, he retains the presence of mind to crack the candy Karamatsu offers him in two before he fires the pieces back at him. “I don’t like this flavour,” he says, but they’re sextuplets. They’ve been together for over twenty years now, and the only things Osomatsu usually refuses to eat are bell peppers.
One night, Karamatsu reaches out to ask a question. He’s empty-handed, but Osomatsu still flinches away. Karamatsu lets his hands drop. They clench into fists of their own accord, his entire body stiffening like a corpse, and he can’t bring himself to move. He registers the catch in Osomatsu’s breathing, but neither of them say a word, and when Osomatsu finally turns away, it’s impossible to tell which of them is more relieved.
“Ah, mistake!”
Karamatsu shakes his wallet out and pays for three more rounds. There aren’t any cool prizes on offer, but he needs to vent, and Todomatsu might appreciate the large pink rabbit if Karamatsu does manage to hit something. He hefts the gun back onto his shoulder, squints, and almost hits the stall owner. A couple of girls point at him as they pass.
He’s so cool, he imagines them saying. The girl he’s trying to win a prize for is so lucky.
Today, the words feel sour in his mouth. He offloads another five thousand yen while the stall owner watches him with trepidation and manages to score himself a red towel. It makes him think of Osomatsu again. “Who cares about that guy anyway?” he growls, imagining his brother’s face pasted onto the target.
Fake Osomatsu leers at him and opens his mouth enticingly. Karamatsu sees red, the glistening back of Osomatsu’s throat, and he shoots his load straight into it. Bullseye.
“Congratulations!” The stall owner shakes his head in disbelief as he brings the rabbit down. “Got there in the end, didn’t you?”
Karamatsu nods numbly. Fake Osomatsu winks at him, mouth blending into the crimson centre of the target, and Karamatsu’s hips jerk up unconsciously. “That was fun,” he tells the stall owner, unable to find the right words to describe his gratitude. He ties the towel in a bow around the rabbit’s neck and pins it under his arm, escaping into the crowd to find the rest of his brothers. Jyuushimatsu’s easy, his voice distinct from several metres away, and he comes with Ichimatsu in tow. Both decline to comment on Karamatsu’s prizes, or indeed on Karamatsu’s presence in general, so Karamatsu hangs back and watches them loiter at the food stalls.
By chance, they encounter the other three buying candied apples. “This is for you,” Karamatsu says, pushing the rabbit at Todomatsu. He’s managed to fix it up a bit, having dressed it in a spare tank top and furnished it with a pair of his favourite sunglasses. “Ah, my tank top!”
Todomatsu throws the shreds of cloth at him and hugs the rabbit close. “Thanks for the present, Karamatsu-niisan. I’m going to dress him up myself!”
At least someone’s grateful for Karamatsu’s generosity. “No problemo,” he says, sending his brother a trademark Karamatsu Smile.
“You’re so much better when you don’t talk,” Todomatsu sighs. He holds out his candy apple. “Here, take this.”
“Where’s mine?” Osomatsu whines, only to be utterly ignored. The look on Ichimatsu’s face says he’s thinking the exact same thing, but doesn’t have the courage to say it. Karamatsu follows his line of sight to Todomatsu and the rabbit and curses himself. He should have picked up the grey cat toy he had seen there too.
“What a sinful man I am,” he moans. “Wait for me, brother!” He races back to the stall, imagines Osomatsu swallowing the candy apple whole, and picks up three different cat toys in one turn. It takes him about five minutes, but by the time he goes to re-join the group they’ve moved on. He doesn’t find them again until the fireworks are about to start, and Ichimatsu’s too shy to accept his gifts in public, though Karamatsu spies him sneaking glances at them when he thinks everyone else is watching the fireworks.
Osomatsu’s drunk. He sits near them twirling bottles between his fingertips, and usually Karamatsu’s mind would work wonders from that, but he’s tired today. He doesn’t even reply when Osomatsu pokes him with clammy fingers, calling his name in countless variations.
With that said, he’s only human, so when Osomatsu brings out the low murmur, Karamatsu can’t be blamed for squirming in his seat. “What?”
“Everyone’s so mean to me today,” Osomatsu complains. “I want a candy apple too.”
“Too bad.” Even if Karamatsu went to get one, Osomatsu would probably – he’d throw it on the ground and stomp on it, or something, which would be rude to the chefs.
Osomatsu pouts, sidling up against Karamatsu’s arm. He’s warm and sweaty from the alcohol and the summer heat, his yukata slipped down around his hips. “Keep me company,” he whispers, almost inaudible. Fireworks burst in the sky, capturing the attention of everyone in the vicinity, so nobody sees Osomatsu reach up, voice deceptively light, and he drags Karamatsu down with an iron grip.
Summer ends in a haze of red. Every time Karamatsu closes his eyes, he almost drowns in suffocating heat, the acrid taste of sake on his lips.
“Osomatsu.”
“I’m going out.”
The rest turn to him when Osomatsu leaves, and Karamatsu’s so sick with the unfairness of it he can only collapse back onto the floor. Todomatsu sucks in a breath. “Karamatsu-niisan…”
If he has to hash this out right now, he’ll lose all credibility as an older brother. “I’ll be on the roof.”
Ichimatsu joins him there some time later, staring into the setting sun. “I wouldn’t complain if it happened, but you’ll ruin your eyes that way.”
“Thanks.” It’s the last words they speak to each other for a while, propped up against the tiles together. A deep navy seeps between the clouds, spreading over the sky, and the wind cools. The cat in Ichimatsu’s arms mewls in protest.
Karamatsu rises, holds out a hand, and Ichimatsu pushes him off the roof.
Having ascertained his ribs are in all the right places, Karamatsu sets off for the convenience store. They do say that the good old-fashioned cure for heartbreak is a tub of ice-cream, after all. The Baagen-Dazs isn’t on sale, though, so he buys himself a box of popsicles instead and sits on a bench at the nearby park. Naturally, the first one he unwraps is red. “No,” he mutters, and puts it back. The second one is red as well, though, as is the third, and Karamatsu suddenly realises that he’s bought a ten-pack of red popsicles. Startled into laughter, he looks helplessly at the sea of melting red and hoists himself off the bench. “It’s going to be fine,” he says firmly. “Let’s go back.”
He puts the box back in the freezer when he arrives home – no point wasting good popsicles. One of them still hasn’t degraded to slush yet, so he takes that one and stains his tongue red, waiting for Osomatsu to come home. Everyone else is asleep. Todomatsu’s brow is furrowed when he goes to check on them, and Karamatsu’s heart clenches in guilt; he hadn’t meant to make his brother worry like that. “It’s fine,” he sings, softer than a whisper, and the wrinkles ease. He pads back to the door. “Sleep well, my burazaas.”
“Shut up,” Ichimatsu grumbles. Karamatsu strains his ears, well-accustomed to Ichimatsu’s moods, and is rewarded with the barest of sighs. “Good luck.”
He can’t tell how long he waits there in their hallway, pinching himself to keep awake now that Osomatsu’s not here to threaten him into submission. The moon doesn’t move like the sun, and it’s so dark around. Karamatsu gets himself another popsicle and powers through that too, crunching down on the ice so the pain shoots up to his skull. His lips must look horrific by now, red and engorged, and Karamatsu helps himself to the freezer again, and again, and again, hoping to take his mind off the thought of himself looking anything less than fabulous.
When Osomatsu finally slips through the door, he does so with far less fanfare than usual – he’s the type to fling doors open hard enough to shatter the sliding bolts. He doesn’t see Karamatsu until it’s too late, the door latching shut behind him, and Karamatsu shoves him up against it, equally blind. “Try it,” he hisses, swiping the popsicle in the general direction of Osomatsu’s face; it catches on his hair, his ears, his nose.
“Stop waving that around,” Osomatsu growls, squeaking as the popsicle brushes a particularly sensitive area of his earlobe. “I don’t want to.”
Karamatsu reaches out, his hand covering Osomatsu’s face. He maps out Osomatsu’s chin, pulls open his jaw. Osomatsu struggles against him the whole time. He lands a good kick to Karamatsu’s shin and almost escapes in the aftermath, but Karamatsu’s not going to let that happen now, not when he’s so close to what he wants. “Try it,” he pleads, cradling the stick in his hands. His throat is wrecked from the sugar, his voice hoarse and ugly. It’s his worst offering yet, but Karamatsu has nothing else left to give.
“Why?”
And Osomatsu sounds different too, quiet and resigned. He’s waiting for something, Karamatsu realises, and he doesn’t want to hear it.
“I – ” He stops. Osomatsu won’t forgive something as simple as because I want you to. Karamatsu searches for the right answer, for any other answer, but they’ve diverged somewhere along the way, all six of them, and they no longer share one mind. He swallows hard. “Why don’t you want to try it?” Osomatsu’s silent, too silent, and Karamatsu babbles on. “It’s good, you know. It’s no Baagen-Dasz, but it’s clear as the water from Mt Fuji, sweet as a word from Ozaki himself.”
“Shut up, Shittymatsu.” Osomatsu regards him with half-lidded eyes. For a long moment, Karamatsu holds his breath, waiting. “You’re way too obvious,” Osomatsu continues. “It’s uncomfortable, you know? Your nii-chan doesn’t like having food forced on him. It’s not nice, Karamatsu.”
“I’m sor – ”
“I said shut up.” Osomatsu finds Karamatsu’s hands, untangles the popsicle from his fingers. “It’s just a popsicle. If you wanted me to eat it, you should at least have gotten something quality.”
Osomatsu had refused prime cuts of Kobe beef; Karamatsu isn’t letting him get away with this. “Hold on – ”
“Shut up.” Harsh breathing fills the hallway. “I don’t want your food.” Something cold touches his lips. Karamatsu opens his mouth instinctively in protest, and Osomatsu shoves the remnants of the popsicle inside, too deep. It hurts, hard wood on his palate, and he coughs, spluttering, fire burning in his throat. “That’s what it’s like,” Osomatsu tells him, sliding the stick out.
Karamatsu drops to his knees, panting. “It hurts.” He’s dizzy, and confused, and his whole body aches from the fall and the popsicle and everything else that all comes back to Osomatsu somehow. Osomatsu, who crouches low and fists a hand in Karamatsu’s pyjamas, dragging him back up. Osomatsu, who’s pressing their foreheads together, their noses too. He doesn’t resist when Karamatsu surges up and closes the last gap, hungry and wanting, and when Karamatsu draws back Osomatsu chases him down.
“Yeah.” His eyes soften. “Tastes good, though.”