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The dim lights shown through the windows. Lights giving a dim glow throughout the estate, quite in ways it always seemed to be at night. It was almost like no one lived in the large estate, despite being filled with people.
Maids, cooks, and other workers had their own areas, then the family took most of the space. The elders slept deeper in the estate, along with the parents. The three kids had rooms closer to each other but also a bit far from the elders and their parents.
Goka liked it that way.
He liked it that way because he could walk around at night and not wake anyone. Kyouka was a heavy sleeper and Zanka still believed in ghosts, so if Goka did wake him Zanka would be too scared to get out of bed.
Goka had some issues sleeping, so he often went for walks to try and burn that energy that was keeping him up. Often it was just in his mind, though. His mind never seemed to shut up and the last thing he wasted was to hear it’s bullshit.
He had his arms crossed, feet landing with weight like he knew they should.
He was feeling odd. He was taught to notice things. Things that shouldn't be there or that stand out too much. Being able to read people and the environment easily, mainly because doing so could mean the difference between life and death.
But he shouldn’t feel weird.
He was home right now. He was walking the halls like usual. His mind, despite the odd feeling, was quiet.
Maybe it was the recent events?
Maybe it was the fact the dome is kinda messing up at the moment and it’s warmer than it should be?
Maybe it was the fact that not even one maid has been seen yet? They slept, of course, but some liked to work at night.
Maybe it was the fact he didn’t hear the sound of the guards shoes against the stone path outside? They did shifts and rotations, mainly to keep the Nijiku clan safe.
Maybe it was the fact that he now stood before Zanka’s door. Zanaka’s door?
Goka looked around. For what? He didn’t know. The halls were empty and silent. He wondered where everyone was.
Why was he standing in front of Zanka’s door?
The only time he came here was to wake Zanka up for training, totally no other time, and even then Zanka has been waking himself up and joining Goka in the mornings.
He looked odd eating blueberries. Goka liked seeing him eat them though. He didn’t know why, he just enjoyed it. It was…odd to him.
Maybe it was the fact he was feeding them to him? Not the nanny or cooks. Goka didn’t trust them, Zanka always looked ill after he ate whatever they made.
It was odd, Goka could remember filling ill to after he ate sometimes but that was because he was given so much to eat.
Was he fat?
If he was, he blamed his nanny. Though he himself didn’t think he was fat.
I digress, Goka had no clue why he was here. Truly he didn’t want to see the droopy eyed brat.
Regardless of how he felt, he found himself opening the door slowly. The room was dark, darker than one might think. Darker than Goka knew it should be.
It was pathetic, really, how Zanka still liked there to be light.
How he was still scared of ghosts.
Goka grew out of that long ago, even younger than Zanka.
It was what was expected. You grow out of such childish things.
Kyouka took all of Goka’s candles, she told him to get over it. It was odd how different they were treated.
It was unfair.
Why didn’t Zanka get told to get over it?
Why didn’t Zanka get told to man up?
Why didn’t Zanka get fed a lot, to the point he would get ill and throw it all up?
Why didn’t father teach Zanka?
Why didn’t Zanka eat dirt every other day?
It wasn’t fair.
Goka was treated so differently from Zanka. He didn’t get everything Zanka got.
He didn’t get the head pats.
He didn’t get the time to grow.
He didn’t get that softer look from Kyouka.
He didn’t get anything.
Goka found himself by Zanka’s bed. The blankets were thick despite the warm weather, Goka never questioned why before. Now he found himself unable to stop asking it.
He never liked his mind being too loud. It complicated things too much and it annoyed him to no end.
It was like it was always going.
Always dragging him down.
It took him down paths he didn’t want to explore, even if it’d feel good.
Goka’s hands wrapped perfectly around the little neck below him, a squeeze and he knew he could snap it like the most fragile porcelain around. Like a twig when trying to hold a boulder.
He leant forward, not adding too much weight but adding just enough.
Just enough where the small, soft puffs of air became gasps.
Just enough where nails trimmed back tried to dig into his hands.
Just enough where those droopy, navy blue eyes opened and looked at him.
How many times has Goka thought of this? Of killing the little brat below him. Of snuffing out the thorn in his side.
How many times has he been training Zanka and imagined snapping his arm?
How many times has he wished to shove the smaller into the koi pond and walk away like he didn’t hear the splashing?
How many times has he thought about covering those blueberries in powder strong enough to take down a grown man for good?
He thought of it too much, no might say. He thought of it so often that sometimes he had to remind himself that he had yet to do anything, till now that is.
Goka’s life was ruined the moment he heard those cries. The moment another boy was born he knew he would be replaced.
Zanka was born and the moment Goka held him, he wanted to toss him away.
Wanted to crush his tiny body.
What took Goka weeks to learn as a boy, took Zanka maybe a few days.
What took Goka hit after hit to acknowledge, took Zanka once before he knew better.
Goka was being replaced.
He knew he was being replaced. Which made Zanka’s shortcomings just as irritating as the shit he got on the second try.
Zanka still bit the shit out of people. He left teeth marks on a maid.
Zanka still sobbed his eyes out when he had a bad dream. The amount of times he’s tucked himself into Kyouka’s or Goka’s bed was annoyingly high.
Zanka still needed a light on in his room. Goka was four when he stopped believing in such things.
Zanka still struggled to write properly. Goka was able to write full sentences by now.
Zanka spoke in heavy, improper slang. Goka honestly doesn’t even remember a time he’d hear anyone speak like Zanka does.
Honestly, it was all so shameful for a Nijiku son. That’s why Goka’s grip tightened.
Those small hands kept trying to scratch. Those navy blues glossed over with tears. Soft cheeks turning red, then a soft purple. Breaths coming out, broken words mixed in as the kid tried to speak yet couldn’t get anything out.
This is one of the many things Goka thought of doing to him. One of the many things he wished to do to him.
Yet now…he’s chest squeezed.
Yet now, he remembered those navy blues barely open and looking at him for the first time.
Yet now, he remembers thinking about how breakable the tiny body in his arms was.
Yet now, he remembers seeing small lips part and blood flow from them like a small spout.
Yet now, he remembers a shy smile handing him a crudely drawn picture of Goka in the garden.
“An-iki..” The smaller rasped out, breathless and broken. A wheeze more than spoken words.
Tears splitted down the side of his face, his lips changing colors and his navy blues rolling back as the whites turned red. The hands slowly stopping their scratching and the breaths fading and becoming shallow.
A soft thump of small hands hitting the bed filled with room. A final breath passing past parted lips. The thump of a pulse beneath Goka’s fingers that was racing before slowing down till he knew it wouldn’t come back, till he knew it’d stop for good.
Goka kept his hands there, around that fragile neck. He knew the color it’d be. He knew it would be a deep color of red around the edges and an indigo as the base, yellow mixing in. It was the same as all the other bruises Goka left before yet so different, because this one won’t really heal. The body stopped working, it’s not going to heal it.
His own throat felt tight. His eyes burning as he looked down at those empty eyes below him, the ones that used to look at him like he was the world.
His hands shook as they moved up, cupping that small face in his hands and letting his thumbs rub across the corners of those eyes. Wiping those tears away. There were words on the tip of his tongue. Words he wanted to say, though he didn’t truly know what they would be.
He felt his breath shutter, his forehead resting beside Zanka’s as he held that tiny body close. Like he did when he first got to hold Zanka.
He didn’t mean to.
He didn’t mean to.
He can say sorry, right?
He can fix it.
He can.
Tomorrow he’ll get up and fill a bowl with blueberries. Tomorrow he’ll sit outside on the engawa and wait to hear the pitter patter of feet. Tomorrow he’ll feel that weight next to him and hear that soft munch of blueberries. Tomorrow will be normal.
Tomorrow, Zanka will be okay.
The bed underneath him changed. There was no weight under him or in his arms. It was just himself and his pillow that slowly soaked up the tears that slipped out.
Just a dream.
It was okay, it was just a dream.
A fucked up dream.
What did it mean?
What did it get him?
Who does that make him?
He didn’t want to know. His head hurt.
He was tired and wanted to sleep. He wanted a dreamless sleep.
He wanted to wake up tomorrow and wait for the pitter patter. Wait for the soft munching and the small body next to him. That’s what he wanted to do, so that’s what he was going to do.
Maybe a walk though, just to wear him out and let him fall into a dreamless sleep where he can wake up and wait.