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Tsukumo Yuki hates her life. She hates her parents, and their insistence on fostering kids, and she hates the kids she takes in. Not because their them, but because of what is automatically taken from her. Because she’s expected to take care of these kids. Meanwhile her parents go out, with friends and coworkers, drinking to their hearts content.
Things, however, have changed recently. Her home was the emptiest it’s been in literal ages and in came more space fillers in the form of three brothers. Two were what her parents usually aimed for. Young and annoying pipsqueaks with some variant of manners. As much as traumatized kids could have. The third though, he’s nothing that they ever want. Older, sixteen or seventeen she presumes, and moody. See, Yuki’s parents like at least an illusion of joy. It’s why they hate her, she refuses to play along with games of pretend.
The boy seems to be the same. He also looks a little gay- which is again- something she knows her parents hate.
The oldest boy is assigned to share her room, the younger two are given their own. It’s been a week since the trio moved in, and the oldest doesn’t really talk much. He’s spoken a few words to Yuki’s parents, and even fewer to her herself. Really the only time she hears him talk talk is to his brothers. And in that same vein, it seems his brothers are determined to only go to him for help.
It’s been a week since they’ve moved in and Yuki still doesn’t even know the eldest's name. She knows the younger brothers from listening in. But not his. So as they’re getting ready for bed, laying respectively in their own, she asks him, “What kinda’ woman are you into?” She turns to face him, propping her head on her arm, “Or guy, I ain't no judge.”
He lays on his back, unmoving and Yuki’s convinced unblinking, “I fail to see the worth in such a question.”
“C’mon, just humor me”
He flips on his side, facing away from her, “I don’t think I will.”
She sighs, flipping onto her back. Mirroring the position the boy just held. “Can I at least know your name then?”
There’s silence. Long enough of one that she’s sure he’s ignoring her. But then, in a soft whisper she hears it, “It’s Choso.”
They don’t talk again for the rest of the night. Or for the rest of the week for that matter. But the younger brothers, Eso and Kechizu, start giving her drawings and inviting her to play. Asking her for lunch or dinner on a few adventurous occasions. They insist their brother’s too shy to join. Though, somehow, it feels like he’s handing them off to her. It pisses Yuki off.
It’s another evening of Yuki’s parents being gone, and Choso holding himself up in their room that Yuki decides to act. There’s anger pent up inside her- no- not anger. Annoyance. She’s annoyed beyond belief at all the circumstances of her life.
She opens the door without caring to knock. Choso doesn’t look up, sat hunched in on himself in the middle of his bed. His hands dig into the pigtails in his hair. Meticulous pulling and rubbing at the strands.
She pauses in the doorway for a moment, considering the two actual kids down stairs, and closes the door. Every bone in Yuki’s body wants her to yell. She doesn’t, “You need to get off your ass, and go down stairs to you brothers. I’m not doing this anymore.”
Choso stays frozen in his place, she can hear muttering now but it’s illegible. Yuki narrows her gaze at him, and when he continues to pull and twist at his stupid pigtails she goes to her bed. “Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I’m not watching them anymore.”
She watches Choso from her post. He’s like a void, so self absorbed and drawing in more gloom than he really needs. After a while he lifts his head, gazing at the door. Though it doesn’t seem like he’s fully there. Like there’s some piece of him missing. Oddly enough Yuki feels the same way. Maybe I’m projecting?
Then, Choso finally says, “Why don’t you shut the hell up?”
Yuki sits up from her bed, “The hell did you just say? I’ve barely even said anything, besides asking you to be responsible for your siblings!”
Choso stays frozen in his same position. As if the words being said and his body are following two different paths, “Just shut up.”
“Why don’t you make me!” Yuki stands, taking steps towards Choso’s bed. They really shouldn’t fight. But the kids had some stupid shit on the TV, and her parents shouldn’t be home for at least another two hours.
Choso shifts his head to look at her, his cold eyes barring in like fangs. She closes the gap between them, her fist colliding with his cheek. Choso falls back, head producing a smack against the wall.
Yuki really hopes the kids are asleep.
Choso rights himself from his slumped form, springing himself at Yuki. They tumble to the floor. Yuki is quick to get herself from under Choso, pushing him off to the side. He’s surprisingly light, she guesses it’s from his notable lack of eating. She tries to stand but Choso grabs her ankle, she falls on top of him.
“You fucker.” She grounds out, landing another punch on him. She doesn’t know where. The whole sequence is barely able to register in her mind. His hands are scrambling at her arms, nails digging in.
Choso coughs, “I see why your parents are gone all the time…I wouldn’t want to deal with you either.”
This sends Yuki over the edge. Of all the things in this past year, of course a brat in her home is the cherry on top. She fully straddles him, her punches raining down on him. Her hearts not fully in them, and her fists themselves are shaking. Yuki’s breath also can’t seem to stay. It’s stilted, filtering through her forcefully.
Yuki raises her fist to punch Choso again, but there's something about him that stops her. He’s crying but he’s not trying to stop her at all. The hands on her arms are no longer scratching, instead a pleading grip. As if the hold alone will keep her going. Choso’s head is tilted back like an animal in surrender.
Yuki lands her last punch on his chest, though really it could hardly be called a punch. More like a light tap. “You fuckin’ loser.” She gets off him, going to lie in her bed, facing away from him, “I should be the one crying.”
Yuki doesn’t hear him move. Just the sound of wet breaths and unrestrained sniffles.
“Yuki?”
His voice is quiet, like if he spoke any louder the roof would cave in on them. She pays him no mind. Shuffling further into her blankets, tracing patterns in the crowning of the wall.
“Yuki, I’m sorry.”
“Shut up, Choso.”
When Yuki wakes up the next day the sun is already up, bearing down into her room, making it uncomfortably warm. Her hair clings to her face and her chest hurts when she breathes.Yuki turns her head and part of her is expecting Choso to be on the floor still. With pathetic breaths and sluggish blood rolling out his nose. But it’s empty. His bed is made and there's not a scrape on the floor. With the sunlight flooding the room it feels like no fight even happened at all. Yuki stares at the spot they scrabbled.
I wouldn’t want to deal with you either.
The words flow through her, following the same path as her blood. Circulating round and round. Yuki doesn’t want to move- can’t move. She continues to stare out at the spot, her gaze only drawn away by the creaking of the door.
A little boy pops in, a mop of black hair on his head. It’s Kechizu, the one that looks most similar to Choso. “Do you wanna play, Yuki?”
She lets her eyes drift back to the spot, “Not today, Kech.”
He lingers in the doorway, clinging to the door knob. He needs something to do.
“Hey, Kech.”
“Yes, Yuki?”
“Can you tell Choso to feed Garuda. There’s a mouse in the fridge, he can give her that.”
She had taken it out yesterday with intent to feed the snake today. But the thought of doing anything other than laying here… it seemed so draining. She doesn’t pay attention to if Kechizu leaves. Instead turning back to the wall, prepared to trace patterns until the rise of the moon, and maybe then some.
It’s a few days later that Choso asks her for Garuda’s feeding schedule. She thinks nothing of it, instead waiting for the interaction to end. Just so she can lay in peace again.
The following weeks are a blur from her bed. She get’s up to use the bathroom, but that’s about it. There’s a vague remembrance of her parents barging in. Yelling maybe? Yuki doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.
Choso comes in and out of the room, to sleep of course. But he also brings Yuki food and water, he clears off her night stand when she finishes off the bowls and plates. He wrangles her into gurgling mouthwash each night, and keeps the kids out of her room.
She doesn’t get why. So far their only interactions have included a fight and a probing of Choso’s romantic preferences. But he does.
The only proof Yuki gets that time really is passing is the healing of the bruises on his face. Fading lighter and lighter until only a yellow blotch remains.
One night, after Yuki’s been given her mouthwash, Choso finally talks to her.
“Sit up.”
She pinches her brow. “What?”
“I said sit up.”
“Why.”
“Just do it.”
Yuki flips over, contemplating him. His eyes are red around the edges, but that seems to be their default form. His hair is down, just longer than his shoulders, tucked behind his ears. He has a hair brush in hand.
“Why do you insist on… all of this?”
Choso shrugs, “It’s my way of saying thanks.”
Yuki sits up. Choso climbs uninvited onto her bed, behind her.
He starts at the ends of her hair, at some point he summons a spray bottle to assist him. Yuki must have missed him holding it. The sound of knots being pulled fills the quiet room. “What exactly are you saying thanks for?”
She expects to be met with silence, or for his response to take awhile, but neither of those happen. He responds instantly, “For beating me up. I was… I was angry. So thank you.”
Yuki balls her hands into fists, “That’s stupid, you know that?”
She can’t see it but she just knows he’s shrugging. She sighs, “If you really want to thank me you can tell me what kinda' girls you're into.”
Choso tugs extra hard at the next knot. They both chuckle, letting the rest of the night be lulled into silence.