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It was 1 AM when the robber struck.
The noises from the adjacent room, courtesy of Mahiru and whichever partner he had brought home tonight, had finally ceased. Bangs on the wall, rhythmic vibrations, loud cries—these, combined with being a chronic insomniac, had kept Fuchi up so late. Now, with his roommate’s energetic nightly activities over and his sleeping pills kicking in, he was ready to get some much-needed rest. He closed his eyes, when suddenly—
Rattle, rattle.
Fuchi removed his noise-cancelling headphones and set down his phone. Huh. His doorknob was being jiggled. That was weird—Mahiru always knocked, and besides, he should be passed out drunk right now. Maybe it was whoever Mahiru had brought home…?
In the very next moment, he made a terrifying realization. He had forgotten to lock his door.
In his defense, it had been an especially long day at work. He was so exhausted that he’d just shut his door and collapsed on his bed, only bothering to change into his pajamas. In his tiredness, he had neglected to twist the little switch on his doorknob. Now, he was going to pay the price.
The door creaked open.
Fuchi froze. Even with his terrible vision, he could see the silhouette of a person in the doorway. They creeped in, steps slow and calculated. This was not the messy stumbling of a drunk person. This was the sound of someone being deliberately quiet.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was going to slam out of his chest, his breathing was getting heavy, and his whole body was quivering—all things a sleeping person would not do, he reminded himself, and tried to stay calm.
He should focus on something comforting. What if it was a ghost? No, then they would just go through the walls. Okay, so maybe this person was a murderer? But not like a crazy psycho who would stab him to death, leaving him to bleed out in blazing agony. No, something less painful—an assassin who would pop him in the head with a quick bullet, and just like that, it’d all be over.
Unfortunately, he only had a moment to enjoy this idea when he heard the sound of rummaging. With painstaking caution, the intruder opened and shut his drawers. Disappointment should not have been Fuchi’s first thought—it was just a robber. But if they were provoked and had a gun, then maybe…
Impulsively, he tried to move, but found that he was completely paralyzed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t even twitch a finger. As adrenaline pounded through his veins, his survival instinct had gone from an annoying setback to something overwhelming. The whispers in his mind were no longer heard over the screaming. He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die.
The robber shuffled around his room. As their footsteps got closer, any thought about assassins, guns, or nicely accidental deaths vanished. Fuchi swallowed hard, lungs heaving. He kept trying to limit his airflow, but that was only making it worse. His breaths were as shaky as the rest of his body.
The intruder approached. Without sight, Fuchi was attuned to every other sensation with great sensitivity. There was a minute shift in the air, then a faint warmth. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He didn’t dare open his eyes to double check it—he had an intuitive feeling, like a painful twist in his gut. They were reaching towards him.
It took all of his willpower not to flinch when he felt the contact. There was movement on his chest as fingertips brushed against him. The pair of headphones he had set there moved imperceptibly.
His heart stopped. Calm. Just stay calm. That’s all he needed to do.
Inch by careful inch, the headphones slid away. Whenever his breathing became too ragged, the headphones would stop moving; when it returned to normal, they slowly lifted it up. Fuchi’s muscles locked up, going so tense he thought he might explode from the pressure. Each second of this was excruciating. If they didn’t move soon, his heart was going to burst out of his chest and slam right into their face.
After what felt like an eternity, they edged away from the bed. The door closed with the same gingerness it had been opened with, then the sound of footsteps faded away. There was one final, distant noise, and finally, it was silent.
He reached for this phone--which, thankfully, was tucked safely under his sheets--and dialed a number with trembling hands.
“This is the police.” A voice crackled through the microphone. “What’s your emergency?”
Too loud, too loud, too loud. The volume was at its lowest level, but even then, it felt like it filled the entire room. He vanished under the covers, shoving the speakers against the bed to muffle them. “There’s a robber,” he whispered, but the words were incomprehensible.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that again?”
Fuchi found that something was lodged in his throat. “There’s a robber,” he choked out.
“Okay. I’m going to need you to take deep breaths.” The operator sounded calm and composed, but it did little to soothe him. “If you can move safely, try to exit. If not, lock any doors and find a location to hide in.”
Fuchi followed the instructions as best as he could. Locking the door should have been simple, but it turned out to be an arduous journey. It took all of his courage to climb out of the safety of his covers, and one hundred percent of his concentration to find the floorboards that wouldn’t squeak. Once he reached the door, he finally twisted the lock. The click of it shutting was tiny, but in the silence of the apartment, it was a thousand timers louder.
Next was hiding. In his childhood, he had been an expert on finding the best hiding spots—places where nobody wanted to get on their hands and knees to check, and places that could not be reached from the outside. He knew a good candidate. Lowering himself to the floor in slow-motion, he squeezed into the crack under his bed.
“I’m hidden,” Fuchi informed the operator, barely audible.
Shortly thereafter, a barrage of questions came spilling through the line. “What’s your address? Is there anyone else in the apartment with you? Do you know where the robber is?”
Fuchi answered each one as best as he could, even as tears prickled at the edges of his eyes. Under the bed, the space was tiny—so small that he was gasping for air.
More instructions shot out of his phone. “If possible, send your roommate a text to warn them of danger, and tell them to hide.”
Fuchi peered at his phone. Without his contacts in, trying to read the tiny letters on his screen was an impossible task, made worse by the tears blurring his vision. He tapped on what he thought was Mahiru’s contact, relying on pure muscle memory to type.
The operator spoke again. “The police will arrive in roughly fifteen minutes. Remember, take deep breaths.”
Deep breaths? Fuchi tried, but it was a futile effort—the lump in his throat was blocking his airway. He felt the oxygen thinning under the bed; his breaths only became more frenzied.
“Help,” Fuchi pleaded.
“Sir, please stay calm and remain on the line.”
As much as Fuchi tried to muffle the phone’s speakers, the faint static was all he could hear—if the robber walked back in, they would find him. Ignoring the operator’s instructions, he ended the call. An instant later, he felt a flash of regret. Would he get arrested for that? Would the police come and lock him up again? Panic filled every crease and fold of his brain. He shut his eyes, held his breath, and listened. He couldn’t hear any steps, or drawers opening and closing. There was only the distant rumble of cars and the occasional honk. Still, it did little to calm down.
Sirens blared in the distance. Eventually, there was a distant bang. Knocks pelted the entrance to the apartment like hail. “Police! Police! Open the door!”
Fuchi curled up under the bed, lanky body compressing into a tiny ball. The springs of the mattress dug into his body like nails, scraping against his scarred skin. He refused to leave this small bubble of safety. As long as he hid here, he would be okay.
There was the sound of shuffling in the apartment. The door swung open, followed by the sound of distant conversation. Fuchi didn’t have time to process it; his senses were already locked on to the next sound, taking in every detail. What seemed like a dozen sets of footsteps were now trompling around the apartment.
Suddenly, the doorknob jiggled. Fuchi’s face went deathly pale.
A commanding voice barked through the door. “Police! If you’re in there, open the door!”
(“Damnit, kid!” A gruff man called out, breath laced with the sharp smell of alcohol. “Get out of there!”)
The door shook. Fuchi heard fragments of voices. “Open… repeat… open!” He couldn’t make out anything past the blood pounding in his ears.
(“Open it! I said open it!” Something hit the door, followed by the sound of shattering. “You fucking prick!” the man roared. “Look what you did!”)
The door slammed against its hinges. The doorknob rattled up and down, up and down. They were trying to get in, they were trying to get in, they were going to hurt him—
(The man was now screaming at the top of his lungs. “Unlock it, you damn runt! Unlock it right fucking now!”)
The door opened.
Someone stomped into the room, accompanied by loud voices. Fuchi knew what to do—he had done this many times before. It was simple. You did not budge an inch, you did not take in a single breath, and you prayed that your hiding spot was good enough.
It was as if all the adrenaline in his body was put on pause. For as long as there was noise, Fuchi stayed perfectly, totally, and completely still.
He listened to the voices. He did know why there were so many of them, but one seemed oddly familiar. He caught a few words here and there. “Key… roommate… a robber?…” Every time a voice became loud, his heart would skip a beat. Loud was bad. Loud was anger.
Gradually, the yelling faded. There was still noise, but it had been reduced to a normal tone. Was he okay now? Had they forgiven him? Had they sobered up? No—that was impossible. They were lulling him into a false sense of security, just so they could hurt him more later. He refused to leave his hiding spot.
He caught snippets of sentences. “Most likely roommate… his name?... okay, Fuchi.” They pieced themselves together into something more coherent. “Waiting for a response… appears to be in shock… have not found suspect.”
There were no shouts, just the clicks of walkie talkies and words crackling through speakers. The coast seemed deceptively clear—that was, until a new person entered the mix. Fuchi’s heart spurred back into motion.
Someone raced into the room. Their steps were loud stomps, their voice strong and fierce. With their arrival, the volume in the room flared back up. Calm low tide swelled back up into a wild high tide. Fuchi shut his eyes and rode out the waves. He was hidden, and that was all that mattered.
In the sea of chaos, he heard his name being called. “Fuchi… Fuchi… where is Fuchi?”
Another person snapped back. “Crime scene… not allowed… must leave.”
The voice shouted his name again, closer this time. “Fuchi!”
Like clockwork, the other person yelled too. “Step back!”
Out of nowhere, someone slid under the bed.
No—they had found him! Fuchi shrank away, trying to make himself as small as possible. He pressed himself against the wall, in the desperate hope that they couldn’t touch him from there. The attempt was fruitless; he was cornered, and there was no escape.
A hand made contact with his shoulder.
The sobs Fuchi had been holding suddenly flooded out. “I’m sorry,” he wailed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
A tense voice, rough and out of breath, emerged from behind him. “Fuchi? What happened?”
“Please stop,” Fuchi cried out, a waterfall of tears pouring from his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please stop!”
“Hey,” they whispered gently. “You’re safe. It’s me, Tobi. I’m your friend.”
Fuchi waited, shivering. He didn’t believe it. They were being too nice. At any moment now, the facade would drop and he would be hit. He braced himself for the next blow; it was only a matter of time.
But the hand didn’t dig its fingernails in until there were red marks, or pinch him until there was a bruise, or slap him until his skin stung—it merely lay there, cupping him gently. The presence behind him spoke with a soft passion. “I would never hurt you, Fuchi. Never, ever, hurt you.”
“I’m sorry,” Fuchi sobbed, over and over. Begging was all he had left. Maybe they would spare him if he apologized enough.
“Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe with me. You mean so much to me.” They had a seemingly endless supply of sweet nothings. After each one was spoken, their voice would waver more and more, until it broke down into a tiny whisper.
The words of kindness were spears in Fuchi’s defenses. Eventually, the breaths rattling from his lungs became softer, steadier. He made a startling realization: the presence next to him was familiar.
“Tobi!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah,” they croaked. “That’s me.”
Fuchi sighed in relief. This person—Tobi—was nice. Their hot breaths on his neck; their gentle touch on his shoulder; their soft voice in his ears. He liked everything about them.
He turned around. Slowly, his hand followed a trail—tracing along their shoulder, curving down their back, then hooking around their side. He pulled them flush together. Tobi stiffened like a diamond, hard and jagged, but precious either way. Fuchi kept the treasure beside him close.
This person was safe. He couldn’t understand why, but a deep part of his subconscious was absolutely sure of it.
“We should go,” Tobi said, voice suddenly taut.
Fuchi couldn’t be removed so easily—he was holding on to Tobi like his life depended on it. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbled.
Suddenly, there was a yell from outside the bed. “Both of you, exit with your hands up!”
“Come on. We have to,” Tobi snapped. He pushed at Fuchi’s chest, so gently it had no chance of actually succeeding.
“Why?” Fuchi whined. He became a stubborn vine—arms rooting Tobi in place, nails digging in like thorns.
“The police,” Tobi hissed. He made another shove, so weak it could barely be defined as one.
“No,” Fuchi mumbled, inching closer. With his impressive height, he easily curled around Tobi, whose much smaller form slotted perfectly into his.
Tobi, possessing the reflexes of a cat, froze the instant he felt Fuchi shift towards him—but he didn’t move away. “If you don’t let me go, we can’t leave,” he said, voice strained.
“Together, then,” Fuchi said, the words rumbling into Tobi’s ear.
“We can’t do that,” Tobi begged, heart nearly beating out of his chest. “Let go.”
The voice repeated itself once more. “Exit with your hands up!”
Fuchi grumbled his disagreement. Somehow, he managed to close whatever centimeter of distance was once between them. He tangled their limbs together and pressed his face into the top of Tobi’s head. If they were close before, then this was occupying the same space. Their atoms were basically merging together.
“Fuchi,” Tobi begged. With the way his voice shook with desperation, one could have assumed he was in a life-or-death situation. That assumption would have been correct. If it wasn’t Fuchi’s snuggling that killed him, then it would be cardiac arrest.
“But it feels nice,” Fuchi said, like it was nothing more than a simple fact.
The voice from outside boomed like thunder. “Exit with your hands up!” It was, of course, completely ignored.
“I like it,” Fuchi hummed. “I like you.”
For a heartbeat, Tobi was at a loss for words, thoughts, or any mental function. His brain ceased processing entirely. Just a few simple words had rendered him completely useless.
He was quick to recover. In a flash, he effortlessly pushed away—careful to use the floor as a launch pad, not Fuchi’s body—and then he was gone. Naturally, the skilled fighter was able to win against a weak, somewhat malnourished boy. It had never been a competition in the first place.
“No!” Fuchi shrieked. No, no, no—why did they leave him? What had he done wrong?
He crawled out with much less grace, driven by raw desperation. As he hopped to his feet, his head hit the metal rim of the bed. The pain of that was incomparable to the pain of being abandoned.
As soon as his hands moved, however, there was a bark. “Hands up!”
Fuchi froze like a deer in headlights. The police. That was the police.
Once out of his shelter, the real world came flooding back to him. Like the white lights that shone in his eyes, reality was blinding. The memories of what just happened flashed before his eyes. They were a mushy soup, the ingredients being hot and safe and close. Intertwining his legs with the boy beside him, pressing his lips into his soft hair, feeling the flex of his strong muscles—the flavor was intoxicating.
It made him feel all warm and fuzzy, and a part of him screamed for more. But that part of him was no longer in control. There was no getting second servings, or second chances.
Heart pounding, he threw his hands up on either side of himself, squinting around. He could make out a few officers, along with Mahiru and an unknown woman, but he was only searching for one thing. He found Tobi standing nearby, hands on full display, and completely turned away from him. Suddenly, Fuchi wanted to run off the nearest bridge.
Why? Why had he done that? Under that bed, his mind, and by extension his rationality, had completely melted. Tobi hadn’t been Tobi there. He had been nothing more than a body, a body that Fuchi wanted to cling onto and never let go. This, the person standing right there, was the real Tobi—his companion and best friend, but probably not for much longer.A flashlight was pointed right into his face. “What’s your name?”
“Fuchi. Sunao Fuchi,” he gasped. He shrunk away from the brightness, eyes flying shut.
Out came a voice that was far too chipper for the situation. “Hey, don’t shine that in his face. You’re gonna blind the poor guy.”
Miraculously, the light lowered from Fuchi’s eyes. Once his vision adjusted, he found a figure with salmon pink hair, baggy white clothes, and a broad grin—and, like the cherry on top, they clung to a woman huddling beside them. That was Mahiru, alright.
“Sunao Fuchi,” the officer repeated. “Do you know who this person is?” They gestured towards Tobi.For an instant, the two boys made eye contact. Tobi’s face was as stoic as usual, but Fuchi could see something else flicker in his eyes. An unspoken message passed between them—a confirmation of what had gone down under that bed.
“That’s Tobi Otogiri,” Fuchi mumbled, and he had to force his eyes away.
“I see.” They switched their flashlight to Mahiru. “And this is your roommate and half-brother, Mahiru Hiruma, yes?”
Mahiru’s grin vanished in an instant.
“Oh, yeah, that’s—“ Fuchi abruptly stopped. Wait. Half-brother? Had he heard that correctly?
Mahiru recovered his smile, though he seemed to have put it on wrong; it was really just an upwards twitch of his lips. “Yep! We sure are,” he said, in a voice that was a little too cheerful. “Family’s gotta stick together, eh?”
The officer turned to Fuchi. “Is this correct?”
Fuchi froze. Mahiru shot him a piercing look.
“Um. Yeah,” Fuchi muttered, glancing away. “That’s… right.”
After a brief pause, the officer continued their procedure. “Once more, if you have a weapon, show it to us immediately.”
Nobody spoke.
“Alright, then. You may lower your hands. While we ask questions, we will need some of you to move to another room.”
Several of the officers began escorting people around. Fuchi found himself being ushered into the living room, along with Tobi and Mahiru, while the woman Mahiru had been with was left behind for questioning. Trapped in his thoughts, Fuchi was no longer cognizant of the situation.
Half-brothers? Mahiru had never told him this—he’d just said they were distantly related, like cousins. Which parent was Mahiru related to? Was it his mom? His dad? Suddenly, his legs felt weak. He wanted to collapse, preferably off a cliff.
He found it impossible to look at the others in the room. He definitely couldn’t bear to see Tobi, and obviously not the police—and now, even Mahiru was off-limits. When the cops dragged him into a separate area for questioning, he kept his gaze on the floor. His voice shook as he recounted the incident, omitting several key details. Notably, he left out what exactly had happened under that bed. He assumed Tobi would do the same, too.
Finally, the police made their exit. The woman who had been with Mahiru chose to go home, leaving the three boys in a ransacked apartment. It seemed to be virtually the same—maybe because it was already somewhat of a mess to begin with. Nonetheless, the robber had done a good job at leaving behind no evidence. Not a single fallen beer can was out of place. Even the door was perfectly functional, as the police had mentioned on their way out.
“What a shitshow,” Mahiru groaned as soon as the cops had disappeared. Whether the comment was to himself or not was unknown; either way, he didn’t seem preoccupied with the others in the room, only on pulling out alcohol from the fridge.
Fuchi silently agreed, then made a beeline to his room. He was ready to leave this entire situation behind.
A sharp voice cut through the air. “So, what the hell just happened?”
Reluctantly, Fuchi turned around.
Tobi stood off to the side, the very image of irritation—arms crossed, fingers tapping impatiently, and eyes narrowed to knife-thin slits. For a terrifying split second, Fuchi thought he was demanding an explanation of the incident, as he had decided to start calling it. Why else would he look so angry?
Meanwhile, Mahiru had collapsed into the couch, two handfuls of beer cans in tow. “They took the fucking TV remote,” he announced, chugged another drink, and diligently got to work finishing the next.
“There was a robber,” Fuchi filled in, letting out a sigh of relief. Of course; Tobi had no idea what had just gone down here. That was all there was to the question.
Tobi’s eyes slid to his, narrowing. “Did they take anything important?”
“Uh, yeah. The TV remote,” Mahiru repeated with extra emphasis. He flipped up the tab on his last can of beer, finishing it in record speed.
Fuchi stared at his feet. “My headphones,” he muttered. “But not my phone, at least.”
After giving Mahiru an evil side eye, Tobi turned his attention back to Fuchi. “Will you be alright on your own?”
“Probably,” Fuchi mumbled, then realized that answer was not satisfactory. “Oh. I mean. Uh. Yeah,” he clarified, only stammering a few dozen times or so. He could feel Tobi’s gaze burning into him.
Mahiru tipped his head back, a lopsided grin on his face. “Awww,” he drawled. “Not gonna invite me over, huh?”
The air around Tobi seemed to frost over.
“That’s alright,” Mahiru chuckled, launching off the couch with all the awkward grace of a drunkard. He stumbled towards Fuchi.
Tobi’s fingers flexed into fists. He watched Mahiru like a hawk, ready to strike at any moment.
Fuchi knew his roommate well enough to know what was happening. There could only be one thing that Mahiru wanted right now. A thousand emotions tangled in his heart, but he forced himself to move. It would be selfish not to help.
As he stepped forward, Mahiru crashed forward, right into his arms.
“Just so you know, your mom is such a bitch,” Mahiru mumbled into his sleeve.
Gingerly, Fuchi returned the embrace, moreso to prevent Mahiru from falling to the ground. The boy in his arms was still tipping forward, with no regard to supporting himself. This was how Mahiru usually was, when he got into this kind of mood—the kind where alcohol clouded his head, physical affection meter cranking to the max.
“Mn, no… I’m glad she was all I had to deal with,” Mahiru slurred, sinking even deeper into the hug. “Your dad was a thousand times worse, right?”
As soon as he heard those words, Fuchi stiffened.
“I don’t blame you at all.” Mahiru let out a wry laugh. “I mean, growing up alone with that guy? Sheesh! I’d probably be like you, too…”
Fuchi swallowed thickly. He tried to inch away, but Mahiru was clinging to him like a koala. Fuchi glanced around for help, and sure enough, there was Tobi—eyes shooting daggers into Mahiru’s skull.
Mahiru poked his head up over Fuchi’s shoulder. “Oh, Tobi,” he sing-songed, a grin curving up his face. “You have cigarettes, right? Can I have one?”
Tobi’s death stare pierced into Mahiru’s very soul.
“C’moooon. Sharing is caring,” Mahiru said, utterly unfazed by Tobi’s glare. “You care about Fuchi, too, right? I have no idea how you got here, but damn.”
Tobi’s look had become so venomous, it could probably kill someone.
“Honestly, I almost forgot I had keys to some of the rooms. Bet you would have broken Fuchi's door down if I hadn’t opened it.” Mahiru laughed, the sound filling the entire room. “Oh, the look on your face!”
Fuchi didn’t have the time to reflect on that. He had to stop this before it got out of hand. “Mahiru,” he stammered. “Let’s just go to sleep, okay?”
“Good idea,” Mahiru exclaimed, but seemed to misunderstand what that meant—he snatched Fuchi’s hand and started dragging the boy to his room.
“Not together,” Fuchi said, voice tiny. He tried to tug himself free.
“What?” Mahiru cried out incredulously. He gaped at Fuchi, grip tightening. “You’re leaving me? All alone?”
“I think so. Maybe. Probably,” Fuchi sputtered. With a great deal of effort, he managed to slip his hand out of Mahiru’s hold, but not for long.
Mahiru followed after him, swaying unsteadily in Fuchi’s general direction. “What will I do if I have a nightmare?”
Fuchi reeled back, but escaping was not going to be so easy—not with Mahiru lurching forward, nearly plummeting to the ground. To stop him from falling, Fuchi was forced to stop. Mahiru crashed right back into his arms.
“Is it because I lied to you?” Mahiru whined, alcohol misting his breath. “I’m sorry!”
Fuchi flinched. “No, I—“
Mahiru buried his head into his shoulder. “Was it something else I said?” he said, muffled. “Was it about your family?”
Fuchi’s bottom lip started to quiver.
“Oh!” Mahiru brightened. “Is it because of your dad?”
“Don’t talk about him,” Fuchi cried out, twisting away.
Mahiru didn’t let go—he was an anchor wrapped around Fuchi’s torso. The chain between them was solid iron, just like Mahiru’s grip. As Fuchi tried to move, the boy attached to him was simply dragged along, an unshakable dead weight.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Mahiru wailed.
Fuchi could only try to squirm away, throat tight with barely restrained tears.
The two struggled against each other, a never-ending game of push and pull. Mahiru blabbered drunken apologies; Fuchi was only focused on escaping before he broke down crying a second time.
Tobi, who had been watching the commotion from afar, was at his last straw. This was getting ridiculous.
In one moment, he was at the edge of the room. The next, he had practically teleported to Fuchi’s side. It only took him a second to do what Fuchi had struggled with for the last five minutes. As if he were handling fine china, he removed Mahiru’s arms from his friend, careful not to damage—or even touch—Fuchi.
As soon as the parasite was separated from its host, however, Tobi abandoned the notion of gentleness. A light push of his arm was all it took. Crash! Mahiru slammed against the floor, shrieking.
Tobi observed the aftermath with a twinge of satisfaction. So far, he had one regret: he was pretty sure he could have used a little more force and gotten away with it.
On the contrary, Fuchi was rather conflicted with this outcome. He gawked at Mahiru, who was now sitting on the floor, pink hair veiling his face. The boy had gone oddly silent.
On one hand, a non-zero part of him was glad to be free. On the other hand—
“Tobi,” Fuchi gasped. For the first time since the incident, he held direct eye contact with the other boy.
Tobi’s anger was now sufficiently resolved. He stared back at Fuchi, expressionless. “Yeah?”
“You shouldn’t do that,” Fuchi whispered.
Tobi rolled his eyes. “And he shouldn’t be doing whatever the fuck that was.”
Fuchi glanced back at Mahiru, despondent. He had no idea what to do anymore. Comfort Mahiru—his half-brother?—and risk getting dragged around again? Stay with Tobi, but forever suffer from guilt? Go to his bed, and endlessly dwell on what had happened?
A wave of exhaustion, both mental and physical, washed over him. “I’m going to my room,” he said hoarsely, trudging away.
“Will you be okay?” Tobi called after him.
The words knifed into his heart. Fuchi thought he had been saved from crying, but apparently not. The lump returned to his throat. Why was Tobi being so nice, even in the face of it all? Why bother asking him that after everything that had just happened?
“I’m sorry,” Fuchi said, the words practically muscle memory.
Tobi’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”
“For…” Fuchi’s eyes flitted towards him. He could name a million things right now, but one in particular was on his mind. “For what happened. In my room,” he offered as vaguely as possible.
Tobi hesitated, eyes widening. The look was gone as quickly as it had come. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, gaze ripping away.
Fuchi crumbled into pieces. “Okay,” he whispered, and he felt liquid well up in the corners of his eyes.
The room was filled with a tense silence. Mahiru climbed to his feet, wordless. Jaw clenched, he made a straight path to the fridge, scooping out more beer cans before storming away. Fuchi thought about apologizing to him, too—what for, he did not exactly know—but he didn’t feel like miserably failing again. He had learned his lesson: it was for the better if he didn’t talk. He dropped his head and fled to his room.
“Call me if you need anything,” Tobi said flatly, then turned towards the exit.
The three boys took off in their own separate directions, nothing more said.
As soon as Fuchi closed the door—and, more importantly, locked it—the dam on his tears was fully unlocked. No longer restrained, a torrential downpour of sorrow flooded out. He staggered across the room, collapsing into his bed. Sobbing, he yanked the sheets over himself.
What an idiot. What an absolute goddamn idiot.He didn’t want to think about it—about Mahiru, about Tobi, about everything that had happened.
As much as he tried to forget, his effort was completely in vain. It was all his fault. He could have handled the situation better, but of course, that was impossible if it were him. As expected, he had managed to blunder every single move he had.
His hand reached out into the darkness. Like the rest of his body, it was a disgusting thing. It had picked cuticles and unruly nails; chapped knuckles that he hadn’t bothered to take care of; ugly gray burn scars that brought him unwanted attention. It had no right to reach out to Tobi. Something so wretched should be kept to himself.
He put the hand where it belonged—around the knife hidden under his mattress.
There was a tiny whisper from the depths of his mind. He wished he could be back under that bed, wrapped up with Tobi, where everything was safe and warm.
It was a shame that would never happen again.