Chapter Text
The newscaster rattled on about a heat wave on the old television nestled in a slanted, rickety shelf beneath the Tomoshibi standard. Arajin only listened to the beginnings of the broadcast, wondering how the suit-wearing man wasn’t baking in the inferno that was summer in his hometown. Somewhere outside, shouting voices quieted into hushed whispers again and the scrape of his chisel filled the droning silence. They didn’t know he was home yet, and a sense of smugness crept in his chest at the thought of successfully avoiding them.
It wouldn’t work for long, they wanted to talk to him after he finished cooling off.
So, he was running out of time as it was.
Once the last bit of sediment was brushed away, he blew across the oblong stone, watching white glittering powder color the air in a cloud of dust.
Arajin stared at it in the palm of his hand, then clenched his fist around it, pressing his knuckles to his forehead as he prayed. Buddha never responded to his pleas, perhaps due to the nature of suffering and self-encouragement, or the lack of belief that he could ever become someone better than what he was. Nevertheless, just as the beat-up fan relentlessly attempted to cool down the interior room, Arajin swore to keep trying. If the Buddha wouldn’t answer pleas for himself, then perhaps it would for someone else.
The broadcast switched to a program about the summer festival, and his stomach sunk at the sound of a door rattling shut on its hinges. Dull, aching pains shot up his left side when he stood, webbing over his ribs and potentially going further to bruise some of his organs. Yet, he gripped the stone tight in his hand and hoisted himself over the low garden wall separating the dojo from the hazy streets.
My body hurts.
After a way of walking, the nagging thought buzzed incessantly like a mosquito hovering just at the edge of his hearing. He breathed in the thick, soupy air as he swayed from one foot to the other, wondering if he should’ve taken one of the large paper fans stashed in his mom's restaurant. There wouldn’t be many customers today, aside from the ones attempting to escape the heat, and even then they would be turned away.
A family matter, his mom would say, cheerful as always.
She wouldn’t admit the loss of business was hurting her already meager earnings. Or that, with a heavy heart, she may have to find other work until ends could meet.
That’s for adults to worry about, Arachiin, she would tease with a poke to his nose before shooing him out of the room to rest.
She never sighed or frowned in front of him. Always painfully happy, like a clown putting on a show, until he peeked through the crack and saw her with head in hand while talking to his father. The tears falling from her eyes, like the weeping wounds on his body, would need to be taken care of sooner or later.
He understood that more than anyone.
His sneakers scuffed against the hot asphalt, sweat dripping down his chin as he coughed up pinkish spittle when the harsh grating in his throat swelled to the point of smothering. He scrunched his nose at the taste in his mouth, foul enough to make him regret eating the tikka masala earlier. Metal’s thick, bitter twinge mingled with the warm spices, and the cumin seed lodged in the back of his tooth annoyed him.
Thankfully, the neighborhood was rather quiet for the height of summer, nothing aside from the shrill cry of cicadas following him as he irritably dragged his body from one block to the next. Eventually, keeping his eyes open was too much of a chore, and as his head lurched forward, his body almost followed suit but the cool stone tucked in the crevices of his palm reminded him of what he set out to do and he immediately righted himself to keep from hitting the ground.
Just a little longer...
It was muscle memory, more so than an actual sense of direction that kept him moving. He wasn't sure where he was, truth be told until the scent of the ocean crossed his nose. His stomach tightened as an image conjured across his mind, blurry and rippling. Water, green as grass, but somehow tinged with blue and red, shimmering as the sun barely kissed the horizon. With the cloying, curdling scent of sulfur beneath, he could almost imagine that he was in the mountains staring down at the sprawling ocean. But with a heavy blink, he opened his eyes to the heat haze of a wavering street and lifted his head to find the shaded awning of a bathhouse's gate.
Stepping beneath it gave him some reprieve from the summer sun, but the weighted stone in his stomach only increased tenfold as he heard muttered cursing and the fiddling scrape of iron. Looking up, his eyes softened at the sight of a dark brown-haired boy tussling with the lock to the bathhouse's door. He let out a few more curses when his key fell short of entering the lock, and Arajin felt his bruised lip smart as his mouth lifted in a slight smile.
"Mitsu-nii," he called out, wincing at the rough scrape of his throat.
The boy's fumbling stopped for a split second when the key slipped from his hand, clattering on the step. He turned around, half-bent down to pick it up, with his head lifted to fix an ocean-blue gaze on Arajin between soft brown locks. "Eh?” Recognition filled his eyes, sparkling blue crescenting as he grinned, “ Oh , Ara-chan, is that you? Welcome back!"
"Mn," Arajin lumbered forward with his best impression of a nonchalant gait, and in his exhaustion, forgot to tell the older boy how much he hated when he called him that. However, it was hard to convince Asamine Mitsukuni of anything once his mind was set on it, and after trying for so long, Arajin's resolve was beginning to wane. "Is oba-chan and oji-chan in?"
Mitsukuni scooped up the key, managing to fit in the lock with a triumphant grunt. "Nah, they're at the hospital. Mata got into it with some punks," Arajin clutched the stone tighter, wondering if he could be as good at pretending as Mitsukuni was. When Mitsukuni turned somewhat to face him, the redness at the corner of his eyes spoke of shed tears, and the purpling bruises at the back of his hands almost matched the hands Arajin hid behind his back.
As if aware that he was being watched, Mitsukuni turned around once the door was properly locked, giving Arajin a sympathetic look - his brows puckled and eyes curving, making his features softer, welcoming . Arajin glanced away, unable to bear the weight of that gaze. Why was he worried about him when it was his brother in danger?
"Aren't you coming with?" Mitsukuni asked.
Arajin hunched his shoulders, bowing his head until his chin brushed against his stretched-out collar. His blue t-shirt felt too warm against his body, clinging to him like a second skin, or a flimsy piece of armor that he wished he could hide in. Thankfully, it wasn’t see-through, as he was certain the skin beneath would be an ugly mess of sores that would become bruises and bruises that were only beginning to heal.
Mitsukuni didn't wait long for an answer, his footsteps lightly tapping against the stone walkway as he neared Arajin. The encroaching presence reminded him of what the world smelled like before it rained - earthy, faintly scented with something , anticipation probably. He was always restless when it rained, and just as Mitsukuni neared, dropping the heavy weight of his hand on one shuddering shoulder - Arajin felt restless within his skin.
"C'mon, seeing you would brighten him up," the smile in Mitsukuni's voice was too painful for Arajin to bear and he desperately wanted to cover his ears. "And if he’s up to it, we can get payback. I know how you are about Mata-"
"Asamine-senpai."
Mitsukuni's fingers twitched where they crooked along the curve of his shoulder, almost oppressive in their weight. All too slowly, he lifted his hand, turning sideways. The hand didn't appear in Arajin's periphery, and the lack of its presence reminded him all too well of a trip to the beach with his family. How his mother warned him of the telling side of a tsunami, how the water receded until it was almost out of sight, before coming to crash down in a mighty wave. Mitsukuni's presence felt all too much like that, the calm before the storm.
".. -senpai? What's up with you, Ara-chan? Did nii-chan upset you o-" He grunted softly when Arajin's fist connected with his chest, the stone slipping into the cradle of his opening fingers.
".. Give this to Matakara."
With trembling fingers, he moved to release the stone, hoping Mitsukuni's swiftness was able to catch it before it fell. Though before his hand could open completely, his wrist was seized in a tight grip, keeping his fingers closed.
"Who did this to you?" Mitsukuni demanded in a deep whisper, the boyish grin on his usually comely face replaced with a deadened stare. Arajin’s fingers trembled as he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to feel the metallic twang coat his tongue." Arajin ."
"It was nothing," Arajin shouted, yanking his arm out of Mitsukuni's grasp, his wrist throbbing from the friction of their heated skin. He held his arm by his side, glancing down at the blooming red around his split knuckles. It looked worse than he thought, crusting blood formed petals around the torn flesh, leaking red tinging the skin in different shades, and with the bluish hue beneath, it looked purple.
The oppressive heat slipped through his ears, trickling to his throat where it condensed into a cloud of steam. He felt as if he could breathe fire as he stepped back, and said, “I’m not lying.” Yet, the look in Mitsukuni’s eyes cut through him.
"Give it to him or don't, I don’t care!" he shouted, throwing the stone at Mitsukuni’s face to cover those eyes. A jolt of tension swelled in his legs, sneakers screeching a cry he couldn’t push past the strangled breath in his throat as he forced his body to move .
And before he knew it, he was running. The renewed strength in his legs which once felt like they would collapse under him, propelled him toward the blazing streets and further away from Mitsukuni's desperate cries of his name.
He ran until his breaths were dried hacking puffs, ignoring the whispers as he passed by a storefront, two women witnessing his mad dash from the safety of the awning as they talked.
"Did you hear? Four boys were sent to the hospital today," one lady said. "One of them was the younger Asamine, but he wasn't the worst off. The other boys were..."
Don't listen. Go, faster. Before everyone knows, before Matakara...
Sweat dripped from his misting eyes, but he refused to stop running.