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When we were young, we were taught that kisses could cure anything.
That was the first lie I ever learned. And it was a lie born out of love—the kind our parents wrapped around us with the same softness as blankets pulled up to our chins. Mama would crouch down, brush dirt from our knees after an afternoon spent playing, and press a kiss to whatever part that hurt. Papa would then ruffle our hair and proclaim, with theatrical certainty, that “pain doesn’t stand a chance against a Kitakata kiss.” He’d say that with a laugh, and we’d laugh along with him.
Raito believed those words with his whole heart.
I believed it because he did.
That’s how it always was.
Our house was full of that kind of mythmaking. Warm, earnest, unscientific… Idyllic “truths” given to children so the world would seem gentle enough for it to be believable. Maybe our parents wanted that to be so because they knew we’d be shackled with a myriad of expectations as soon as we grew up. Either way, we traded those beliefs between ourselves throughout our childhood, shaping them into rituals built upon the innocence set aside for the purest of souls.
He’d kiss my bruises; I’d kiss his scrapes; we’d press our foreheads together when one of us cried too hard. And suddenly, just like that, all the pain would be gone.
As long as I had my family with me, nothing could ever truly hurt me.
That was what I used to think.
…I know better now, though.
I know now that pain doesn’t vanish just because a lip brushes a wound. It persists still, hiding in corners we thought safe, burrowing under skin we thought unbreakable. And now, as I trace the pale, ribboned scars along his arms, I understand all the more that sometimes…or most of the time…the ones who can hurt you the most are the ones who share the same blood as you.
Whether intentional or not.
Even if the pain is inflicted upon you…or their own self.
The mere act of loving family means that suffering is shared.
It means that even resentment and devotion can share the same hue.
There was a story about a pair of siblings before. One about how their true love for each other could thaw even a frozen heart. I remember thinking, as a child, that such magic must surely exist somewhere, just beyond the horizon of our small world. That somehow, if we loved hard enough, we could undo anything—any sorrow, any curse, any demon that dared to touch us…
I lean closer now, careful not to wake him. It’s the dead of night, and the room is still except for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, of proof that he hasn’t died yet. Raito is asleep, curled lightly under the blanket, his face softened by the shadows and moonlight that filters through the window. Under that illusory light, he looks unburdened, like he’s still the same idealistic boy from before and not one destined for such a horrid fate.
Quietly, I let my lips press against the pale lines of his scars. I whisper the stories softly, my breath brushing against his skin.
“True love…can undo any curse…even for siblings…”
I press a kiss to each mark, lingering over the ones that speak the loudest, as though the weight of my desperation could seep into him and ease it somehow. But the truth is cruel and sharp…because nothing changes. The scars remain, indifferent to my ritual, a testament to all the pain I cannot erase. In the end, I realized the bitter truth just as I’ve done so many times before: my love will never be enough to save him.
It’s not enough.
I can’t make him want to keep living at all.
“…Just what am I doing…” I sigh as I put his hand down, opting instead to rest my head on the bed. I close my eyes, willing myself to stop my own tears from pouring. “If you’re gone, who will kiss my pain away? You fool.”
When we were young, we were taught that kisses could cure anything.
That was the first lie I ever learned.