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It was quiet.
Ichimatsu was home, sprawled out on the floor. In light of the recent “mom’s developed an allergy so no cats in the house” ban, he was alone, his beloved stray cats beside him only in his dreams. He’d opted to stay home that day and leave his brothers to do their incessant concert-going and girl-flirting and pachinko-playing, as was generally the plan. In lieu of brotherly fun he found himself wallowing in his own self-pity, as was also generally the plan.
“I love to suffer,” he uttered aloud to no one. Only the cats heard them, but those cats were merely in his dreams. They mewed affectionately, as dream-cats tend to do. Perhaps they loved to suffer, too.
Ichimatsu, as it were, did not actually love suffering as much as he let on. Even so, he loved to say so to himself, and his brothers, dates, bartenders, potential employers, the void, and the imaginary dream-cats that lie beside him. It fit well with his mantra, his self-imposed title of “unburnable trash,” and his menacing, soulless, shitty aura, as well as his unsubtle yet only half-accurate death wish. He found that even in the worst of times, his own self-loathing anchored him down, kept him from becoming someone he wasn’t, doing things he shouldn’t. It kept him rather subdued; he didn’t leave the house much those days, and perhaps that was for the best. Suicidal tendencies aside, he was of the anxious and spontaneous sort, and he had an unfortunate tendency to make a nuisance of himself in public when under stress (and both he and his brothers would agree that his habit of shitting on tables in public was getting a little old). The only times he went out was to visit his strays and—
Ichimatsu heard footsteps.
The living room’s sliding door was shoved open, and there appeared Jyushimatsu, Ichimatsu’s most energetic (and secretly favorite) little brother. Jyushimatsu was a ball of electricity, so outlandish even when compared to his five identical brothers, and even though he’d just passed twenty-two he still paraded about the city in too-big hoodies and fuzzy yellow slippers and running shorts that he wore all year round. That day, his grin was as wide and idiotic as it ever was, and it amazed Ichimatsu how it never really seemed to fade, no matter what happened or what he said. In Ichimatsu’s mind, Jyushimatsu was like the sun, a big bright star that looked like it would never burn out. He hoped that Jyushimatsu would never burn out.
Ichimatsu cast a glance at Jyushimatsu and sighed. He thought, Shit, I had planned on being home alone this afternoon, but his face shone with a relief like he hadn’t seen his brother in months. “Jyushimatsu,” he said. His voice was low and grumbly, barely above a mumble.
“Ichimatsu-niisan!” Jyushimatsu exclaimed. His voice was strong and incessant, loud enough to compensate for the both of them. “You didn’t say you were gonna be home!”
He bounded over to the closet, digging for one of his weird spare baseballs that he kept hidden around the house. “C’mon, niisan,” he said, “let’s play baseball! Baseball!” (Jyushimatsu loved baseball.)
Ichimatsu huffed, eyeing the door that Jyushimatsu always left open, before peeling himself up off the floor to close it. He then dropped back down, rather dramatically, splayed out on the floor with his head smushed against the side of the couch. He sluggishly peered at Jyushimatsu through his peripheral vision.
“Pass,” Ichimatsu said.
“Baseball!” Jyushimatsu shouted again. He triumphantly pulled out his baseball from the closet, then leapt onto the couch, flinging his legs over the back cushions. His head hung down off the seat. He stared Ichimatsu straight in the face.
“Baseball?” he asked again.
“Not today,” Ichimatsu reiterated, rolling onto his side and away from his brother.
Jyushimatsu whined. He wiggled over to the other side of the couch, forcing himself into Ichimatsu’s line of sight. “I went to the beach today!” he said. He loved to go to the beach and practice swinging his baseball bat; it helped him vent out his energy, and he’d swing and swing until he felt exhausted, but by the time he got home, he’d have it all back. “7,122 swings!”
“Mm,” replied Ichimatsu. “Good job.”
Jyushimatsu was still grinning, and Ichimatsu could’ve sworn his smile kept growing wider.
Jyushimatsu continued, “The tide was really high, and I thought I was gonna get swept away!”
Thank goodness you didn’t. That was Ichimatsu’s immediate thought. (At times, he hated how emotional and protective he got over his younger brother, even at the slightest mentions of danger. Thank goodness you’re okay.)
Ichimatsu pushed his mushy sentiments away and mumbled some consonants instead, sliding off of the couch’s side and staring straight up at Jyushimatsu. Jyushimatsu stared back, intently and excitedly.
“How are you, Ichimatsu-niisan?” Jyushimatsu asked, just like he did every day.
“Awaiting death’s embrace,” Ichimatsu replied, just like he did every day.
“Don’t say that,” Jyushimatsu insisted. He patted squished Ichimatsu’s cheeks. “You know what’ll cheer you up? Baseball!”
Ichimatsu couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his lips. He took hold of Jyushimatsu’s hand—the comically large sleeves that covered them, actually—and he said, “Not today, Jyushimatsu.” His tone was hushed. He sounded tired.
Jyushimatsu fell quiet. His eyes were still fixated on his brother. In a small, small voice, he asked, “Ichimatsu-niisan, how can I help you?”
“Mm?” asked Ichimatsu (with his throat). “Help me with what?”
“With living, y’know,” Jyushimatsu explained. “Being happy. I wanna help you be happy! Because…you’re always so sad and you look so lonely, and I don’t know what to do, y’know? It hurts seeing you so sad, and I don’t want you to have to suffer, because you always help me, and you mean a lot to me.”
Ichimatsu said nothing. He closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jyushimatsu.
Ichimatsu shook his head.
“How can I help you?” asked Jyushimatsu.
Ichimatsu scrunched up his face.
“What makes you so unhappy?”
“I don’t know,” Ichimatsu finally said. He shoved Jyushimatsu’s hands away. “As if it matters.”
“Your feelings matter, niisan!” Jyushimatsu insisted. He flopped down onto Ichimatsu, briefly knocking the air out of him. With a laugh, he apologized, and laid still until Ichimatsu settled down. He gingerly balanced his baseball atop Ichimatsu’s chest. “You’re great, Ichimatsu-niisan. Really great! I love you a lot!”
“Are you a comedian?” Ichimatsu asked. The corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly. His eyes were welling up with tears.
Jyushimatsu squirmed and hurriedly wiped away Ichimatsu’s tears. “Ichimatsu-niisan, why are you crying?”
Ichimatsu hiccuped a bit. “I missed this, Jyushimatsu,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”
Jyushimatsu straightened up. “Missed what?” he asked.
Ichimatsu asked, “Hey, Jyushimatsu, you wanna go play baseball?”
Jyushimatsu sprang to his feet. That moment, his grin was wider than it ever was. “You really wanna??!”
Ichimatsu didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah, I do.”
Ichimatsu heard the door to the living room slide open, and he flinched as his four other brothers barged into the room. Ichimatsu groaned and slumped against the front of the couch. He thought, Shit, I had planned on being alone this afternoon, and truly, he had.
Biggest brother Osomatsu gave a lazy “Hey, Ichimatsu,” as he sauntered straight to the closet to dig out some of his ‘quality literature.’ He was gabbing about his latest pachinko failure with second biggest brother Karamatsu, who promptly posed dramatically as he offered Osomatsu his words of wisdom. Youngest brother Todomatsu flopped down on the couch, sighing and whipping out his phone.
Choromatsu, attentive as ever, noticed Ichimatsu’s tear-stained cheeks. His eyebrows furrowed, and he asked, “Ichimatsu, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Ichimatsu mumbled.
Choromatsu recalled the muted laughter he’d heard before coming in. “Were you…talking to someone?” he asked.
Thank goodness you didn’t.
Ichimatsu sighed. “No,” he said. “Nobody.”