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"Nii-san... we've run out of rice..."
Jiro's soft voice broke the distant hum of the broken AC, his voice was almost inaudible— quiet and contemplative while he stared down at the remaining pieces of grain inside the container. He lifted it and tipped it to the side, watching the pieces of rice tumble down inside its plastic walls— one... two... three... if he wanted to, he could count them with his small hand and hammer it in his little brain that he would be clutching his stomach again on his sleep this time.
But he didn't. He set the small container carefully on the farthest side of the counter, tucking it neatly between the rack of empty condiments and the wall.
Jiro then turned to look at his older brother, Taro, crouching down on the genkan as he placed his slippers tidily on the floor. His clothes were wrinkled, with few stains of ink peeping from the collar and the scuffs of his uniform. Jiro notices Taro's long hair is slightly damp again, sticking itself to the Taro's nape and forehead like a reminder of the effort he probably did earlier today. In his right hand, he held a small plastic bag of grilled eel with its bottom staining from the sauce.
Taro had bought it for two of them, in hopes that something about tonight would be different— to keep his brother Jiro from curling in his sleep with an empty belly again. But when he saw Jiro standing by the counter, arms on his side and eyes downcast, his smile faltered. He tried— truly. To keep the smile on his face, but it only made him look strained and helpless.
"I suppose okaasan forgot about the rice again..." Taro forced his voice to sound optimistic, carefully placing the small bag of plastic on the flaky surface of their table and strode to the cupboards, "But worry not, my dear brother! I shall find us hidden riches!"
He then threw the cupboards open theatrically, only to reveal a bare shelf save for the tin of old black tea on the farthest corner. His hands rummaged noisily, as if the sound would magically manifest something and they can pretend that everything is fine for a bit more too.
To Jiro however... he understood the implication of it. His dull red eyes only watched his older brother hopelessly searching something for him. Their mother had gone away earlier at dawn before he was able to rub off the sleep on his eyes. She had kissed their foreheads goodbye but sometimes— when she pressed her lips against his temple... it felt hollow...
Maybe it's because their mother wasn't the one who sewed his notebook when it was broken. Maybe it is because she wasn't the one who stayed up at night telling him stories about gods who defied fate while fanning him when nights were hot and uncomfortable. All his life, he only knew Taro.
So maybe... that's why he wasn't so surprised to see themselves tuck inside their small cramped apartment, forgotten and left to take care of themselves— again.
A sudden knock on the door broke the silence, Jiro turned his head to the door, but Taro straightened, hands clapping together as if he had summoned hope.
"Stay seated." Taro said quickly, pressing Jiro to sit down on one of their old squeaky chairs, "I'll see who it is."
He pressed his brother to the chair before giving him a reassuring pat, and went to the door. Curiously, he cracked the door open and saw their old neighbour Ito-san looking down on their door. He looks so noticeably slow... crouching down with only his cane keeping him stable and balanced enough to move around. His wrinkled hand held a red plastic bag, the top twisted shut.
"Good evening Ito-san!" Taro greeted cheerfully as if nothing were amiss, "What brings you here you tonight?"
The old man lifted the bag and held it out, his hand trembling not from the weight of age rather from the contents. "My son brought too many sweet potatoes from his farm... I suppose you boys could use some..." Ito-san's voice came out carefully and measured as if scared that his words might wound.
Taro froze, for a moment he felt his heart sink to the ground. Did they really look that helpless? Does their street whisper of the neglected Kirisaki brothers and their absent parents? Or, is their hollow cupboards so obvious that their elderly neighbour noticed their grumbling stomachs?
Then, with a practiced ease, Taro's lips stretched to a big smile— too wide, too bright. "How generous of you, Ito-san! You truly honor us— we don't have much but please let me find something to give you in return!"
He pivoted sharply, already turning his way towards the inside of their house when the elderly man reached for Taro's sleeves.
"It's fine." the elderly man said gently but firmly before he let go of Taro's sleeve, "Keep them for your brother."
In an instant, Taro felt his eyes sting. His mask faltered as he began to feel that familiar tightening on his throat again. There were thousands of words running through his mind at the moment but— he swallowed them. He bowed deeply and took the plastic bag in his arms. Behind him, he can feel Jiro's eyes staring at the scene. His younger brother was quiet but Taro knows better.
The grilled eel sat at the table, its sauce darkening the thin plastic wrap. The room smelled faintly of the kabayaki, and now, with the sweet smelling scent of earth from their neighbour's gift. Hunger mixed with shame in the air, a quiet heaviness that neither brother spoke of.
Taro forced to compose himself— he slowly closed the door when the elderly man bid his farewell before he turned to face Jiro again and lifted the bag to the air proudly, "Do you see this brother? We will be filling our stomachs tonight!"
Jiro nodded his head and patted the chair beside him calmly. "Nii-san... can we eat now..?"
"Of course, Jiro..." Taro said quietly, walking slowly to their small table and sitting beside Jiro. He took one sweet potato from the bag and quietly peeled its skin... it was quiet and uncomfortable... maybe because they both know someone pitied them?
"Do you have a wish, Nii-san?" Jiro said quietly, his eyes looking down at the chapped paint of their table.
"Why do you ask, Jiro?" Taro blinked, caught off guard but he didn't look down at his brother.
"I asked you first..." Jiro whispered, his eyes remained on the table— his fingernails scraping off the chipped paint of their table, "I simply just wanted to know..."
Taro fingers stilled from peeling of the sweet potato's skin. For a long moment, he stared at the sweet potato on his hand. Its creamy insides were dirtied from soil as he peeled them.
For Taro, admitting his wish would also mean he wishes for something he can't afford— and it felt dangerous, like tethering themselves in a fate that already stolen too much from them.
"I want your dreams to come true." Taro said simply before looking at Jiro with a bright smile. His red eyes were steady and it held a quiet resolve without complaint. As he looked at his younger brother, something inside him eased. For the first time that day, it doesn't look forced nor intentional. Instead it felt genuine and carefree.
"I want your dreams to come true though, too." Jiro blinked before letting out a small laugh.
"That's too bad because, I, Zenji Kotodama, will only wish for yours." Taro put down the potato and pinched his brother's cheek.
Neither of them knew it yet but one day, their lives would change simply because of a wish. But for now, with pieces of food on their table and wishes spoken aloud, they held into each other. And perhaps, for now, that is enough.