Chapter Text
“I didn’t want to recall it because I wouldn’t be able to stop crying. If I recall it, I would be too sad to do anything.”
- Giyu Tomioka, Demon Slayer, voiced by Takahiro Sakurai
The first warning was the flicker of the streetlight.
He didn’t notice. Osomatsu’s peripheral was distracted as he paced down the pavement homewards, the grass of the riverside tainted a deep purple with the setting sun. He sighed as he ruffled through his pockets, the lightweight absence of money reminding him of the probable anger of his brothers, another reprimand from his parents. He expected it—he earned his money the worst way possible, the most cowardly and useless way possible, but he had little choices.
No, he had an array of choices. It was just that he was too much of a numbskull and an icon of laziness to try anything else.
Still. He had a small ounce of determination still whirring inside him, a tiny spark. It was like wandering endlessly within a void, but swearing that there was a faint flash emerging from somewhere, trying to find him. Perhaps a broken flashlight, on the verge of giving in, but its wielder didn’t falter.
It was something like that, this confidence and reassurance he was giving himself. On the other hand, he didn’t praise his confidence much most of the time either. After all, for the entirety of his existence, he and his brothers had always been on the losing spectrum of society. So perhaps anticipating misfortune…Another let-down of sorts. He had grown used to that, but the tiny flashlight in the dark remained. He gritted his teeth, hopeful.
He wished they didn’t notice—prayed to Akatsuka that they wouldn’t notice. Or if they ever did they would let it slide, find more than a black heart residing in their chest and allow this one black heart some mercy. A groan in his gut told him otherwise, but the tremor in his veins and skipping beat of his heart tried to reassure him.
Flashlight, flashlight. Flicker, flicker.
His mind was too focused on his internal flashlight to notice the streelight’s illumination stammering right beside him. As he continued onwards, he clutched the single coin in his pocket and hurried on faster, brushing past the bridge, the dimming sky with its stars scattered above him, and the bundles of trees that framed like lifeless silhouettes. He was almost home, and yearned to be back by dark before he was spotted within the outskirts of Akatsuka Ward.
Flashlight, flashlight, flicker, flicker.
He didn’t notice the flickering streetlight. It was his first warning.
The second warning was the flickers of the toilet light.
But again, he never noticed, nor did he actually care. He had called out a cheerful, “I’m home!” upon entering the household, arranging his red shoes by the front door. The hallway echoed only silence, an inattentive response from those currently nesting within the Matsuno walls. Ignoring him again, it seemed. Sighing, Osomatsu tugged at his red hoodie before jogging towards the living room, finding the rest of his brothers already nestled comfortably around the table. Nobody was minding him, and for now, that’s all he needed.
“Welcome back, Osomatsu-niisan!” Jyushimatsu exclaimed then, a simple acknowledgement as he lounged over the huge yellow ball in the room. Still, that was good enough. It was nothing too important of a phrase, nor did it contain anything that would corner him and expose him for his wrongdoings today. Or at least, the more treacherous half of his wrongdoings.
Chuckling, Osomatsu said, “Ha! As energetic as always, Jyushimatsu!”
“Of course—what else would you expect,” Todomatsu said, eyes still glued to his phone before his lips curled into a tiny smirk. “By the way, Karamatsu-niisan clogged the toilet earlier this afternoon. And Dad’s not home yet so he can’t plunge it. If you need to poop or piss, you know who’s to blame.”
“O-Oi, it’s not the worst,” Karamatsu tried to defend, his fingers trembling against his magazine.
“Shittymatsu,” Ichimatsu deflected, causing a few snickers in the room.
Osomatsu couldn’t help but snicker along, glancing at Karamatsu’s reddening face as he buried his head deeper into his fashion magazine. “Don’t be embarrassed, Karamacchan~!” Osomatsu told him, but he was sure it was more provoking than it was reassuring. “We all know you stink, so it’s not new to anyone. As long as you were able to poop, it shows you aren’t sick!”
“What the hell kind of analogy is that?” Karamatsu seethed, dropping his head lower with a whimper. “You can just not use the toilet, Osomatsu.”
“True.” Osomatsu enthusiastically lifted a thumbs up into the room, only receiving eye rolls from Todomatsu, Ichimatsu, and Choromatsu respectively.
“On the other hand, you can take over Dad’s duty,” Choromatsu suggested as he flipped the page in his current novel. Osomatsu couldn’t read his face, but there was a hint of amusement glimmering in his brown eyes.
“No thanks,” Osomatsu answered, swiping a finger beneath his nose. “I’d rather use the toilet to wash my hands anyway. Or better yet, the kitchen. But at the same time I’m challenged, so I’ll go to the toilet instead.”
“You’re serious? It stinks in there,” Ichimatsu warned monotonously.
Karamatsu blushed harder.
Grinning, Osomatsu sighed. “Like I said. Doesn’t it always?”
A growl from Choromatsu, and a shrug from Ichimatsu. “Can’t argue,” Jyushimatsu agreed shamelessly, spreading his arms out.
With a hum Osomatsu began skipping towards the toilet, swinging open the door. Almost instantaneously the scent struck him, and he reeled back with a cry of utmost revulsion, coughing against the opposite wall in the corridor as he curved his form into a C and smacked a palm over his face. A collection of laughter bombarded his ears from the other room, alongside Karamatsu finally snapping in guilty and shameful apology.
As he recovered from his tortured state, Osomatsu slammed the toilet door shut, screaming towards his brothers’ location, “Oi! Karamatsu! What the hell did you eat?! It stinks like a freaking wasteland here, ya bum!”
“I’m sorry!” Karamatsu yelped, and Osomatsu could already see the younger son knelt on the floor, forehead pressed between his widespread fingers. “I-I had too much oden this morning! I was really hungry!”
“For real!” Choromatsu cackled, slamming a hand against the table.
“God, damnit, Shittymatsu! Truly putting meaning to your original nickname!” Osomatsu yelled again, hoisting the collar of his clothes against the lower half of his face before entering the toilet again. “IYA! Holy shit!”
The smell lunged towards him like a lion would on its prey, and Osomatsu held his breath, reaching for the sink and letting the waters run between his fingers, slide against his skin. The cool temperature was very refreshing, but it dulled in comparison to the horrid stench just casually hovering in the air. Osomatsu desperately wanted to puke, but an extra source of stench would just jinx them further.
He shut the door and lowered his hoodie, gasping for breath. “Dude, seriously, what the hell!” he yelled, earning another applause of laughter from the other room, another set of Karamatsu’s whines and apologies. With the sound Osomatsu couldn’t help but laugh as well, threading through the corridor again to regroup with his five younger brothers. Suddenly, his sins weren’t as hefty as they were before, and he was prepared to just spend another fun evening with them, goofy as always.
All the while, he didn’t notice the light flickering. It was the second warning.
The final warning was the flickering light in the bedroom.
This time, it wasn’t that he didn’t notice it, but it was that he didn’t care.
First, the aura of his sins radiated the moment Choromatsu opened his Nyaa-chan themed wallet, finding an absence of a few hundred-yen bills from within. Osomatsu had been lying down casually on the sofa before he heard the footsteps, and Choromatsu’s accusatory, rigid figure was standing before him.
“So?” the third-born prompted, and Osomatsu craned his attention to meet Choromatsu’s gaze. There was nothing pleasant in them—just rock-formed rage, a single vein throbbing over his left temple. Dark purple shadows. Lighting that made his teeth like stalactites striking the ground.
“So what?” Osomatsu tried dumbly. But from Choromatsu’s lack of passiveness, he wasn’t fooled. Osomatsu had always been the fool, and the fool was often—if not always—caught. Snorting, Osomatsu tried another casual admittance, ignoring the sweat beginning to dot his forehead. “Heh, it was worth a shot,” he said.
“You idiot eldest!” Choromatsu snarled, yanking him by his hoodie upwards before shoving him against the floor. “You asshole—have you no shame?!” he bellowed, saliva spurting against Osomatsu’s face as the eldest squinted to prevent it from entering his eyes.
“Hey! I wanted to buy you a good upcoming birthday gift, Choromacchan~!” Osomatsu chirped, ignoring the spreading soreness in his right shoulder. “I heard that there are going to be limited-edition Nyaa-chan goods and figures next week, so I wanted a handful of money to get something nice for you!”
Completely displeased, Choromatsu scoffed. “Birthday gift bullshit!” he screamed. “What kind of logic is it to buy someone a gift by using this someone’s money as well, huh?!”
“Oi! What else could I have done?!” Osomatsu snapped back, done with playing benign. “None of us have work at all! It’s a miracle when we have money in the first place!”
“And yet you waste it all on pachinko every single time!” Choromatsu barked, shaking his head in disappointment. “You disgust me. It’s always just a gamble to you, Osomatsu. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Irritation twitching, Osomatsu’s facial muscles twisted. “Well excuse me for even thinking about you at all for our birthday, Chorofappyski.”
“To be fair you just need to say sorry,” Todomatsu interrupted, still exerting more care to his cellphone than to his two fighting older brothers. “Not that it’s ever worked for you before, Osomatsu-niisan. But it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”
“He could also say thank you!” Osomatsu argued, trying to rip himself free from Choromatsu’s adamantine hold.
“You’re always just gonna be the shitty eldest, I swear to god,” Choromatsu spat, each syllable hanging like venom on his tongue. It was as if he had not just been laughing alongside the rest of them a few minutes ago, as if the impact of a few seconds lasted shorter than millenniums worth of anger.
With the words still hanging in the air, Osomatsu merely bit his lip, saying nothing more. Then Choromatsu punched him. Again and again.
Shrugging, Todomatsu sing-songed, “Welp, it was worth a shot.”
“Who’s side are you even on?” Karamatsu interrogated.
Todomatsu tittered. “Mine, of course! But I see your point.” He lowered his phone and gestured to the cartoonish fight cloud performing before them. “Just witness these two stupid, idiotic, moronic imbeciles. Fighting over money. Why be such an ass over it when you could just find a part-time job of some sort and earn there yourself? Nah, who am I kidding! I’m too lazy for that.”
“Damn. Look at this idiot,” Ichimatsu humorlessly mocked. “Having a conversation with himself.”
“Says the person who talks to cats on a regular basis,” Todomatsu retorted.
A crack in Ichimatsu’s patience. “Why you…”
“Please don’t,” Jyushimatsu intercepted, already holding off Ichimatsu before he could march towards the youngest son. And it was enough to hold him down enough, for now.
With that the other four were just left watching Osomatsu and Choromatsu with leveled amounts of boredom. They have witnessed Osomatsu do this too many times before that counting was an overdone sport to them. They would care less just as long as they weren’t the victims of his gambling schemes. Which was…rarer. Choromatsu has always been the most fun to tease, regardless of the occasion. So they just watched, only averting their eyes when the lights blinked on and off momentarily, interrupting Choromatsu’s arsenals of punches and kicks against the eldest, opting him to pause.
Osomatsu’s eyes had sealed themselves shut before he could notice the lights, which nevertheless darkened his vision anyway. With a grunt Osomatsu coiled up on the ground, muttering streams of ouches as Choromatsu stepped back, soles still thunder against the carpets.
Choromatsu peered once at the light. “Jyushimatsu?” And he was already accusing.
Jyushimatsu raised his empty hands in surrender. “Hah? It wasn’t me!” he shielded.
“We can just ask Dad to check it when he gets home,” Ichimatsu recommended, leaning his figure against the wall. “Or tomorrow morning. It’s pretty late so he might be tired if he’s just arriving around now.”
“Heh, in that case.” With a theatrical swipe of his bangs Karamatsu pulled out his guitar from behind the couch, flopping himself against its green surface and strumming once. “Brother. Why not sing a song with me? Yesterday I managed to compose something you all might like. It’s called The Pine Heirloom, no?” He strummed again. “It’s inspired by us because I sincerely love all of you.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Ah-one. Ah-two. Ah-one-two-three—"
“Dont,” Ichimatsu instructed. His fist was already curled at his side.
Karamatsu parted his lips. “Yesterday, I wanted to cry~”
Ichimatsu was on his feet.
“Wait, niisan!”
Jyushimatsu’s hands were already wrapped around Ichimatsu’s body again, hauling him backwards as he thrashed his arms around like a furious feline. Todomatsu flipped his hood over his head with a heavy groan, pressing the fabric tightly over his ears as he let his body topple sideways and away from them. While in defeat, Choromatsu let his rear sink against the floor again, still visibly peeved over Osomatsu’s plot and trying to clear his mind off that negativity. His shape emanated a dirty, distasteful outline of volcanic rage, and approaching him was the last thing on all their minds.
The doorbell rang once.
Pausing his song, Karamatsu hummed. “Brothers. Allow me to get it.”
“Shut up, Exclusivematsu, Shittymatsu. We’re not through,” Ichimatsu hissed, only still stationary due to Jyushimatsu’s efforts.
“I’ll pass,” Todomatsu sleepily imparted, leaving Choromatsu’s calmness quaking as he prepped himself, ready to move.
“Nah, I’ll get it,” Osomatsu offered dully, pushing himself from the ground weakly to stand. There was a bright bruise on his cheek and a soreness around his eye, but he didn’t care for now. Naturally, getting beaten up by his brothers was a recurring phenomenon that both Matsuyo and Matsuzo were well-acquainted with at this point. “It’s probably just Dad,” he continued as he limped towards the door. “Maybe he finally brought something home from work for once.”
“Aren’t you hurt?” Karamatsu asked, already standing.
“No, he’s fine,” Todomatsu answered even before Osomatsu could come up with anything to say. “He always is. I wouldn’t worry that much about it, niisan. You’re too kind.”
Taking in his younger sibling’s words, Karamatsu repositioned with his guitar by the sofa again. “If you say so, Totty.”
Saying nothing, Choromatsu just rolled his eyes again, returning his focus to their chaotic brothers. So Osomatsu let that be and slid the door shut before going downstairs, readying himself at the door.
“Who is it? Dad?” he called out as he perched himself next to the rectangular frame, placing a hand on the knob before pulling it open. Already a puff of cigarette smoke got sucked into his lungs and he coughed, turning his attention away for only one brief second before a fist landed on his gut, and he was forced out of the house and into the moonlight.
Upon reflex, Osomatsu gasped. “Jy– OOF!” He tumbled as a fist interrupted and connected to his cheek, and he stumbled, a collection of muscled hands already digging their nails against him in hostile imprisonment.
Three tall men clouded by darkness, the one in the middle with a cigar, the one to the left with a cloth. The one with a cloth had the skill, speed, and move patterns of a ninja as he smacked the cloth against Osomatsu’s face, the cloth smelling heavily of chloroform. Osomatsu tried to wiggle in their grasp as they closed in on him, shoving him away from the house as his wrists bound behind him, wrapped around the callused fingers of his captors.
No, they were no ordinary captors. He had just lost a bet to them in pachinko earlier, didn’t he?
Yes, he did.
They were the real reasons he was feeling his sins so strongly this time—Choromatsu’s discovery was nothing to him tonight. It was all about these guys, who he prayed were too moronic to miss a single hundred-yen coin from his debt to them. But contrary to the flashlight in which he had sought for, his victories were cut short, again. He was used to it, sadly.
“Move,” they ordered him, but they didn’t give him a dust of mercy as they dragged him down the street.
Osomatsu had been warned thrice, and the clouds that hid the moon as the night struck twelve indicated that there were no more warnings left.
The Shinigami Salesman was in charge of death, each life represented through the golden flames of a person’s specific candle.
Once long ago, this certain Shinigami had been prepared to snuff out the light in Osomatsu Matsuno’s candle, but idiotic antics and a series of null-minded events rescheduled that opportunity. On the other hand, the Matsuno brothers had been a hilariously pathetic group that just died constantly, rushing through hell and back just to fulfill more nothingness in their lives. He observed that much. They were chaos and he wanted no more involvement tampering with their ends and beginnings.
Too soon, he realized now. As he observed back in his domain where the world’s collection of candles stood, it was clear that Osomatsu Matsuno’s candle was shrinking, its luminosity growing sleepy as it swayed wearily. In less than a second he was out and about in Akatsuka Ward, glancing between houses in search for the oldest son of the Matsuno family. But all he identified were unfamiliar structures left and right, buildings and electronics positioned in some sort of new map.
This wasn’t the Akatsukadai he was accustomed with. It truly had been some time since he crossed paths with the Matsuno family, and this city as a whole.
But then he found them. Or at least, one of them. And luckily, the one he needed to meet.
The man clad in red was thrown to the ground, his body clamoring against a band of black bags and bins. He spat blood against the blackness of the hidden alleyway as his three executors towered above him, each one carrying knives of different fashions.
“I’m not lying,” Osomatsu breathed roughly, attempting to push himself up, but from the Shinigami’s position behind the streetlamp he could see that there was damage in his elbow. Broken or just dislocated, either way it limited Osomatsu’s movements to a high degree. “I was trying to beat all of you so I can get my brother a birthday gift. Anything wrong with forgetting a hundred from the bet?”
“Don’t be cocky,” the leader of the group seethed, sending another stomp against Osomatsu’s side. There was a crack, and Osomatsu yelped, falling flat against the ground again. “Who do you even think you are, brat?”
Huffing, Osomatsu brought his dazed gaze upwards. “I’m Osomatsu Matsuno. I told you when we met earlier. Why, you got short-term memory loss or something, ugly?”
Instead of being threatened or angered further, the three thugs grinned. “Osomatsu Matsuno. So it’s your fault that our master has been locked up for all these years.”
For a moment, their casualty was silent, merely lying lifelessly on the ground.
“Tōgō? Ring any bells?”
Quiet. Then weakly, “…Yeah. Why won’t it? What’s the use of forgetting such a wuss?”
“Nah, your disrespect is another sin in itself, brat.” Another harsh kick to the thigh, skirting Osomatsu a few paces ahead. His face connected with grime pasted against the rough concrete grounds, flies spinning in circles over the bins surrounding them. Osomatsu spat out another puddle of blood, letting his genetics join the trash.
“You really care about your brothers to try the stupidest things, huh, Osomatsu-kun?” one of the thugs crooned, bending down to the unfortunate NEET. From the new exposure the Shinigami could see that Osomatsu’s leg was almost bent out of proportion, a cut leaking dark scarlet by his ribcage. “If you just died now, how would that feel for you? Would you be ashamed to have messed with the wrong people? Or would you cherish not having to be responsible for anyone anymore?”
Osomatsu closed his eyes, breaths heavy as he tried to weigh the ins and outs of the air entering his body. “At this point…I don’t care at all anymore.”
It was not the answer they wanted. The Shinigami witnessed as the oldest brother was pried by his collar and thrown against the wall, pinned there before being punched repeatedly at the stomach. Again. And again. It was like a cycle of striking the gut and the heart, tearing at his hair and ripping through his already-shredded red hoodie.
Osomatsu flinched and cried out with each impact of knuckles to his skin, but he didn’t fight back. Not even when the silver of the first knife was craned through one of his shins, and a hand was against his mouth to mute his cry of pain and horror. Blood slid onto the ground in thick, sticky drops, coating his red shoes with a darker red, painting Osomatsu into a monochromatic painting of his own agony.
Then he was released, the boy slumping against the corner of the alleyway like another discarded doll, purpose downed into something useless, worthless. He shut his eyes, teeth bore tiredly, pale and breathing heavily beside the shadows.
“Enjoy your last, Osomatsu Matsuno.” The three men merely smirked before leaving the alleyway.
Then the Shinigami Salesman went in.
“Hello, Osomatsu-kun~!” the Shinigami sweetly greeted as he approached, his suitcase-like computer swinging jovially in his grasp. “Long time no see. For the many signs I have spread throughout the night for my arrival, here we still are. Me, entering the dump. And you, heh. Down in the dumps.”
The oldest Matsuno brother didn’t move, lashes still down against his cheeks as his new visitor approached him. “Do I know you?” he whispered tiredly, devoid of life.
“Oh, you don’t?” The Shinigami chuckled as he paused, squatting next to the injured adult. “We’ve met on a similar occasion. Your family played baseball to rid me, remember? Or do you only remember my desperation for your death? I think remembering experiences of death are more common than remembering times of life. Because when you die, all the memories come flooding in all at once, and by being granted another chance? My, it’s either a relief or a complete betrayal.”
There was no motion from Osomatsu, only when his eyes opened, daring to focus on the Shinigami’s face. “Ah…I see. Yeah, I kinda remember. Hey.”
Proud of himself, the Shinigami raised a brow. “So, Matsuno-kun, Osomatsu-kun. I have a feeling you’re aware of why I’m here.”
“Mhm, I guess.” He put very minimal effort into talking, as if each syllable was another drop of blood out his system. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but there was a huge gash on Osomatsu’s forehead, leaving a thick trail of blood plastered over his entire nose to his opposite cheek. “So it’s true this time?” the NEET continued. “They beat me up that much? This is lethal?”
“Yes.” The Shinigami sent him a mocking grin. “Damn, what went wrong this time?”
“Man, it hurts to speak,” Osomatsu panted, shutting his eyes once more. “Just tell me all you have to do so this can be quick.”
“Okay, okay. Just don’t die while we’re still talking, okay?” The Shinigami pondered for a bit, tapping a finger to his chin as he studied the body in front of him. “Say, Osomatsu-kun, tell me if it’s true, since I might have overheard. Do you really not care this time if you survive or die? What would your family think, all coddled up beside your futon the last time I dropped by?”
“Um…” Osomatsu’s mouth was the only movement that could be located in him, every portion of his body barely motioning at all. “Yeah, not as much care, I think,” he admitted. “Last I checked…they don’t really care about me anymore either.”
“Oh?” The Shinigami leaned forward, his inquisitiveness tingling him gossipy. “Why’s that so? You were all so attached before.”
“Emphasis on ‘before,’ dumbass,” Osomatsu slurred lamely. “Things change, obviously. It’s always sunshine and rain within milliseconds with my family.”
Chuckling, the Shinigami lowered himself as he crossed his legs over each other, setting the computer at his side. “Even you have displayed as much change. I mean, the little Osomatsu-kun, town troublemaker with his lookalike brothers, gambling? Heh, who would’ve thought.”
“Hell, true,” Osomatsu mused, somehow managing to smirk. “Mom and Dad are disappointed.”
“Oh, if I were a parent, I’d be too,” the Shinigami guffawed, before clearing his throat. “Ahem, anyway.” He looked back at the lying man. “As you can tell, you’re about to die. I have proof—my computer here could show you your candle back at my place, ready to snuff out when you breathe your last. I’m merely just a messenger that could deliver you to the afterlife itself, unless you bargain to stop me. Which has been done before, so you have no more kind options now.”
“Damn,” Osomatsu sarcastically murmured. “Nah, just kidding. Do what you want, dude. I’m sure I’ll somehow manage to get back, like all those other times.”
“No-no, don’t be mistaken,” the Shinigami objected, wagging a finger no. “The reason it’s me this time is because I’m taking you permanently. Understand? So once this flame goes out, you're done for completely. No going back from wherever King Enma decides, nothing. You’re over, kid.”
“Am I supposed to be sad about that? Sorry, man. You’re doing nothing to me.”
“Huh.” The Shinigami paused again, analyzing his position. On normal days during his thirty years as a Shinigami Salesman, his ‘client’ would be begging him not to take them, or eager that they’re shipped off to the afterlife immediately. There were rarely any in-betweens, and yet here before him, clad in the reds of a dying portrait, was someone neutral and careless on the matter. Osomatsu Matsuno-kun was both exciting as he was irritating, and vice versa, if that was a sensible analogy.
Huffing a partial laugh, Osomatsu said, “What’s wrong? Not used to someone as pathetic as me, are you?”
“Certainly not,” the Shinigami honestly answered, though showed no signs of vexation. “But if you remember me well, you must be aware that I’m an evil, chaotic sort of man myself.”
His tongue stuck out a bit. “Like I said, I barely remember. Only that you were gladly letting Iyami strip me in the cold while I was sick. But from that alone? I conclude that you’re an incredibly nuts guy.”
“Either way I’m actually enjoying myself, Osomatsu-kun,” the Shinigami said simply. “And seeing you struggle like this, in so much pain, and yet cracking up arrogant jokes like that, color me impressed. I want to see more, so much more.”
“Seriously?” Osomatsu clicked his tongue. “Man, you just wanted me dead before. Have you grown soft or what for not wanting me out ASAP? I literally can’t move, and it hurts like hell to breathe. So why aren’t you just killing me now?”
The Shinigami’s grin was sadistic. “Nothing else specific really. This is just fun.”
“Don’t bluff.”
“I promise I’m not.” The Shinigami traced a finger through his chest, crossing his heart. “And with that I’m actually thinking of giving you something, just out of curiosity, wanting to see what will happen. You’ve gone through this kind of illusion once before, but with the twists I have in mind, maybe things will be different. Things will change, to quote you exactly.”
“A’ight. I’m… kkh…!” He winced, biting back the pain before he exhaled through his nose. Blood seeped between his lips, and when he opened his eyes they had become duller than before. “…I’m listening.”
The Shinigami nodded, moving towards Osomatsu and putting a hand on his hair, ruffling through his bangs. “Don’t get me wrong—I definitely plan to blow out your candle. But at the same time, there’s a certain situation I kind of want you to handle. What’s that, you may ask. Well, once before your regrets brought you and your brothers to your pasts, to a world where you could see yourselves in high school, and where finding your regret, fixing it, was the only way to bring you back to reality.”
“Sorry to break it to you, man. But this time I don’t remember any of that,” Osomatsu simply stated.
“That’s because you were never meant to,” the Shinigami explained. “But now, I want to see it happen again, but it’s just you. You. And I want to bring you back, back, to when you and your brothers were just innocent little snipes that Iyami wants dead constantly.”
“He still does, by the way.”
“But here’s the new, juicy part,” the Shinigami excitedly interjected, raising a finger. “By doing so, your real, physical body will be left here, comatose. If you don’t fix your regrets before a year in your childhood is over, then you’re dead forever. No turning back, like I said before, neither returning to this present nor your past. But if everything works out, if you fix your regrets before then, I will let you live. Everything will go back to normal, and maybe you will experience another sort of change.” He licked his lips. “So? What do you say?”
“Hm…” Osomatsu shut his eyes, but he was thinking. After all, death was more of a puppet show when the Shinigami had the control, and not the puppet itself. “Why’d you do this again? Why not just blow my candle and let me die?”
“Because what you said makes me think,” the Shinigami told him. “That you don’t care, and that they—your family, wouldn’t care about you either. I can smell your regrets seeping out from your blood. It was such a long way since you were ten, at the brink of death. But I can remember very clearly like crystals, all of your brothers crying around you, attacking me just so I can spare you. And yet while you were surrounded by your loved ones then, you’re all alone now, careless whether I’m kind enough to let you live, or cruel enough to let you die.” He shook his head, falsely sympathetic. “It’s very sad, really. But at the same time very entertaining. It’s always magnificent how life can go through so many twists, but I frolic watching them while they last.”
“Glad to entertain you then,” Osomatsu uttered.
A moment of silence, and the Shinigami let him think. The stench of blood grew more and more spoiled as seconds passed, the red browning ever so slightly as Osomatsu thought. All the while the Shinigami had his arms folded from across the body, patiently waiting. He was fond of his conditions and was anticipatory on the outcome of his deal.
“Sure,” Osomatsu finally said, voice hoarser, eyes glassier. “I’ll do it. Why not? It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“Really now.” The Shinigami beamed maliciously. “You really don’t have other priorities anymore?”
“I did. But now I know they’re for nothing,” Osomatsu exhaled. “It’s the reason I was attacked at all. Imagine trying a gamble to win something because I have little choices. I have no job. Winning is the only way for me to get money. But even so, just one fail on my part, no matter how selfless and generous, leads me nowhere. I’m just better off spending time somewhere else than repeatedly beating myself up over how much of a loser I am.”
“Heh, so it’s settled then.” The Shinigami rose, cracking his knuckles as he stretched. “One year of Osomatsu Matsuno being sent to the past, fixing his regrets. A body left in the present. What a joyride that would be—I’m looking forward to every second of it.” He meant that, with every fiber of his being.
“Wait…”
Wolfishly, the Shinigami gave him a sideways grin.
“Um…” He was hesitant, and already the numerous outcomes from this one deal had begun paving way through delicious uncertainties such as this. “If my body was left here…Will my brothers—or anyone at all, notice me gone? Will they find my body in the dump?”
“Does it matter?” the Shinigami drawled. “I thought they don’t care about you?”
You’re always just gonna be the shitty eldest, I swear to god.
No, he’s fine. He always is. I wouldn’t worry that much about it.
For a moment, it seemed as if Osomatsu was making his last-second choice, going back and forth between yes or no, final or temporary. He was aware of the candle flickering with the span of a dying butterfly, that his life only depended on one more breath of wind before he was gone forever. The Shinigami could sense the regrets and layers of thought crowding through his mind, infiltrating his conscience. Because he too was aware—one choice could change everything.
“Actually…” Osomatsu started, the Shinigami listening intently. “Yeah, let’s do it. Maybe you’re right—I’ll find change of some sort, and I’ll find something reasonable in what’s left of my life.”
The Shinigami smiled broadly, satisfaction and mirth flaming his evil gaze. “Heh. Very well. Now.” He knelt down again, gently putting his fingers over Osomatsu’s eyelids, the NEET allowing Death himself to maneuver his eyes closed. “Keep your eyes closed for now then, Osomatsu-kun. Sleep. When you hear the voices, you’ll know when to wake up. Okay?”
“Fine.” Osomatsu did as he was told, viewing nothing.
“What’s going on?”
“Who is this?”
“Let’s call Mom and Dad…”
“I think he moved!”
“Quiet—he’s waking up!”
“Sir?”
Osomatsu’s eyes flew open, air rushing into his lungs before he bolted upright in a fit of coughs. His empty lungs were suddenly craving for lost air, and his throat stung and his tongue tasted acid. Osomatsu clutched at his form as thick breaths were absorbed into his system, eyes bloodshot as a spasm of hurried survival clung to him. As he calmed himself he shut his eyes, monitoring his breathing before he straightened in his position, a hand pressed gingerly over his left breast.
Then he allowed himself to view his company. And sitting before him with clones of worry and confusion etched on their familiar appearances, were six lookalike brothers, sharing a face of his own.
Osomatsu blinked at them. “Hah?”
The Matsuno sextuplets all jumped in unison. “SHEEEHHH!!!”