Work Text:
“Heh, you know at this rate I won't be seeing this shirt again"
I nervously laughed as I threw my now soiled shirt into the wash basket, ensuring to conceal it under a technicolor mass of growth and decay before pulling my eyes away. At least in there it was hidden, masked from sight. Mum never looked at our washing until it was clean, though even if she did she’d mistake that once white shirt for Osomatsu’s. I can’t even remember a time recently anyone except me had wore a colour that wasn’t our own, minus denim of course.
I don’t know why he chose red. Maybe because it showcased his fierce and passionate personality, or better suited the flames that were eventually going to consume his (and our) damned soul. Well, the more likely scenario was his libido but honestly that wasn’t something I ever wanted to think about. His clothing was the polar opposite to red anyway now, always stained with white (I shuddered as I thought this too).
The parts of him that were red were nothing but a reminder of why this was so wrong, why it wasn’t my colour to posses. The satisfaction that came from my self harm was indescribable to anyone who hadn’t felt it before; nothing I said could persuade them that this was the best stress reliever one could ask for. But the blood? The blood between my fingernails almost made me vomit. It was evidence, and a warning. It was my older brother noticing everything and not choosing to do a thing about it. They all knew. I know they all knew. It was masked behind the snide comments, the subtle snickering behind the door after exiting through it. I was identical to them and yet didn’t belong.
Sometimes walking helped. Sometimes listening to music helped. But help isn’t a synonym of fixing, it’s just a temporary solution to a permanent situation. There were times i could smile for countless hours without a dark thought, yet there were also times that I couldn’t pass a single second without one. Yes, most of these times were self orchestrated, but I know by far that the times that hurt the most are the ones that follow rolls of the eyes and awkward encounters with the others. Sure they tried to understand me, just not very hard. I was more often then not the chain keeping this group of lost boys in Neverland, wanting to let go yet refusing to do so. A lot of people I’ve met say that’s Osomatsu’s job, but a lot of people also said we should have our own personalities so god forbid me from having a little in common with someone I shared a womb with for nine months. We all do.
But this isn’t about them for a change, no, it’s about me and this damn redness I can’t scrape from my fingertips. In a minute there will be more and I can’t bear it. I’m not even intending to do it this time, I promise. I deeply promise you this. In a final act of desperation I tighten the faucet shut. If you use too much water your hands will be dry again, and you know how much flack you got for that last time.
For some reason, I refuse to listen.
You know, my hands look kind of yellow betwixt with a dull illumination of white when they’re dry. The scars crumble over with that tint, thankfully I haven’t been infected enough to see a more sickening shade. You’d think Jyushi would share the same tint with his well worn hands, but instead his glow a rosy pink. You can tell his has come from hard work, whereas mine has just come from hard luck. His smile envelopes his whole body with the same glow that personifies his cheeks, letting the world know that he is indeed my little Jyushimatsu.
My focus is disturbed by the faucet dripping water. Nobody in this house knows how to turn the damn thing off, and dad probably can’t afford to fix it because of our useless asses so best not complain. Considering being the weakest emotionally, I seem to be able to tighten the thing up pretty well, breathing out a sigh of relief as I do so. Better. Silence. A sign that everyone else is asleep (as well as a finally hushed tap).
Gently I ease myself into the empty bath and start running my fingers up and down my back. This time I don’t scratch, I just identify what is damaged and what isn’t. I’ll find a new patch to deface tomorrow, I tell myself, no point in feeling ashamed when it’s all going to come back again anyway.
For some reason (tsk, I know the reason) I start thinking of Chibita. Oh dear, sweet, lovely Chibita. His smiles are different to Jyushi’s, and carry with them a warm glow that is only matched by that of his oden. He actually tells me to stop, and he is the only person who I perceive as meaning it. I tell him it’s healing, that the orange patches on my back symbolize how he is doing the same to me. He’s always loved orange, though I’m unsure if he’s noticed the slight tinges to it I’ve been adding to my outfits and not just my skin.
Despite my lulling and colour coordination, he doesn't understand. It’s hard to when the next time I’m there new patches have appeared, old scars don’t just open themselves. At least I can cover the ones on my face with foundation but he even sees past that by the time morning comes and the musing of the night has stirred away any last remnants from my face.
He still calls me beautiful, and I still refuse to listen.
I thought finding someone I could truly be open with would be enough. Spoiler alert, my flowers: it isn’t. Despite all the positive he nurtures, I still have a family to go home to, something that will fall apart if I ever decide to leave it again at the wrong time. I guess that’s another reason why the blood bothers me, it’s him keeping me there. After last time when Choromatsu left, I never want to see him in that state again. I want him to improve himself, he’s got to, we can’t live there forever, and yet I won’t let myself push him to it. Chibita’s offered multiple times, but I think he understands why I can’t despite how being at home hurts me more than my hands could ever do. So instead here I sit.
Once a week, maybe twice a week, on occasion, I don’t sit. I wander out of the house late at night, not knowing my destination while hoping that it isn’t home. I know Chibita needs sleep, so it isn’t always him. I know the streets can be dangerous, so it’s rarely there. Usually it’s the beach, where I can watch the feverish sun fight the darkness to begin a new day. Heh, maybe that’s why Osomatsu likes red so much and I blue. Just another reason to hold me back from reaching my full potential. What even is my full potential anymore? I don’t know. I can’t do the things I love without fear of being discovered, and mocked, and laughed at. One could say scratching is all I can do.
I also think about death, and all the good days where Osomatsu and I have joked about it. He says he isn’t scared, that we’ll just come back afterwards so why not make a joke of it. Me, on the other hand, begs to differ. To him death is a facade, another gag to add to the tally of times Osomatsu has made the audience laugh. What he doesn’t understand is that one day the audience will go away, and they already did. Many years ago when the relevance stopped, all he had were old, weathered stories. I’ve already said Choromatsu leaving never taught him anything, when in reality it was a taster for when everyone else that isn’t a sextuplet leaves for the last time.
Even you’re going to forget one day, aren’t you?
We never expected to come back, and yet here he is laughing more than ever, liking his 24 year old body more than his 10 year old one. I think he only does so because of the alcohol, I would say the sex but I’m the only one getting any of that (as mentioned before, those clothes are not white without reason).
Finally, and with much more melancholy, I begin to wonder if Akatsuka would be ashamed of me, giving up so easily on the multiple futures he had planned for me; for the sake of comedy never giving a definite answer. Maybe nobody wants to, we haven’t had a proper episode since last year. Perhaps the fire is already burning out, being held up by people too young to accept that nothing more is to come. In fact, this whole narrative has started to crumble because it’s from a young woman’s desperate imagination, but by fucking god I am going to make the most of her finally finding the courage to write something for me. If she can’t keep her talent alive, I will. If canon can’t keep my brothers and I alive, she will in return.
But alas, every day must come to an end, and every weary eyed Karamatsu girl must find her pillow and rest. Stopping myself from feeding anymore inspiration, I gathered my things. Despondent but not without hope, I quietly exited the bathroom for the night, now wearing a grey hoodie over my burning flesh.
Though, reluctant to go to sleep, I swear I heard a noise. She answers me this time, yet again telling me that I was going to be okay. Maybe it was her voice telling me all along. This narrator, via the shakiness in her muted voice, told me she depended on it like they did. Were they even there to begin with?
Yet, much like before, I refused to believe her. Too much to think about for a mere, washed up comedy star. Red was her favourite colour anyway.