Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sae remembered the faintest glimpse of that day—when Mom came home cradling something so small and soft in her arms. 

A baby. 

His little brother. Rin.

She knelt down, beaming, and gently shifted the blanket to reveal a pair of round, chubby cheeks. Then, she placed the bundle into Sae's arms. He remembered how surprisingly heavy Rin felt, like the weight of something important. Something that mattered.

"From now on, you're a big brother, nii-chan ," his mother said warmly. "Alright, Sae, say hi to Rin."

Sae had only nodded back then. 

He didn’t truly understand what it meant to be a nii-chan —not yet. But he did understand one thing, the new little human in their house was cute. Deep green hair, the same shade as Sae’s and familiar teal eyes that blinked sleepily up at him, framed by delicate underlashes just like his own.

Sae had stared at him, expression unreadable even at that age, but inside, something shifted. A thought he couldn't name. 

A feeling he didn’t say out loud.

That night, as Rin slept beside Mom, Sae sat near the crib, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the tiny rise and fall of his brother’s breathing.

“Rin,” he whispered under his breath. It felt strange to say, but not in a bad way. “I guess I have to protect you now.”

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the weight of being a nii-chan , starting to settle in without him realizing it.

Back then, Rin was just a sleeping baby with fists that curled in the air and a habit of sneezing at nothing.

But Sae would soon learn—his brother wouldn’t stay little forever.

Sae was three when Rin turned one.

He didn’t remember much in clear detail—just the feel of soft tatami under his feet, the cartoon jingles Mom played in the morning, and the way his brother’s laugh echoed across the room like a wind chime. High-pitched. Uncontrolled. Always after Sae did something—even if that something was just blinking too slowly or toppling over a pillow.

Rin couldn’t walk yet, but he crawled fast, like a little bug chasing after the noise. And Sae had become the noise.

Everywhere Sae went, Rin followed. 

If Sae played with blocks, Rin crashed them. If Sae tried drawing, Rin smeared it. If Sae lay down, Rin climbed on him like a sleepy puppy. It was annoying.

And yet, when Rin clumsily grabbed one of Sae’s red crayons and offered it back, drool and all—Sae took it without a word.

Mom laughed from the kitchen. “Looks like Rin’s already your biggest fan, huh?”

Sae didn’t reply. He just glanced at Rin, who had now latched onto his leg like a koala, eyes wide with innocent admiration.

He didn’t say it out loud, but something about it felt right. Like Rin was supposed to be there. Following him. Watching him.

Sometimes, in rare moments of silence, Sae would lie beside his little brother and mimic the way Rin breathed—slow, soft, like the world wasn’t rushing them anywhere.

Sae didn’t quite know what being a “nii-chan” meant yet.

But he was starting to understand what it felt like.

Sae didn’t remember a time before football.

There were vague, flickering images—of a ball bigger than his legs, of chasing it down the hallway until he crashed into the walls, of Dad’s voice chuckling behind him, “Again, Sae?” He must’ve been barely one year old, just steady enough to stand and wobble after a ball, but the feeling—the chase, the rhythm of movement—it stuck.

By the time he was three, football wasn’t something he did . It was something that belonged to him. Like his heartbeat. Like blinking.

Mom said he used to fall asleep holding the ball. 

Sometimes, even now, he’d wake up gripping it under his arm like a stuffed animal.

That afternoon, sunlight stretched across the living room floor like a golden net. Sae tapped the small, squishy training ball with the inside of his foot, guiding it in slow circles. Concentrated. Focused.

And Rin—one year old and freshly learning how to sit without wobbling—watched.

He didn’t blink much when Sae played. Just stared. Wide teal eyes fixed on every move.

Sae pretended not to notice. He dribbled around a stack of pillows like cones, made a tiny goal between the couch legs, and kicked.

“Goal,” he mumbled, mostly to himself.

Rin clapped. Or tried to. His palms barely made sound, but his face lit up like Sae had just performed a magic trick.

Sae looked at him for a second. Then, without a word, he tapped the ball lightly toward his baby brother.

It bumped into Rin’s knee and stopped. Rin blinked at it, stunned, then reached for it with both hands—lifting it, dropping it, squealing, and trying again.

Sae sighed. “That’s not how you do it.”

He stood, walked over, and gently placed the ball at Rin’s feet. Rin didn’t understand, of course. But Sae nudged his baby toe forward, just a little. The ball rolled half a foot.

“That’s dribbling,” Sae said matter-of-factly.

Rin laughed like it was the greatest thing in the world.

Sae didn’t smile, but he watched him closely—memorizing the sound, the shape of Rin’s joy. He didn’t say anything else.

But in that moment, Sae knew, whatever football was to him… maybe it could be something for Rin too.

It was quiet.

The kind of quiet that came after lunchtime, when the light was soft and golden through the windows, and the only sounds were the ticking clock and the faint hum of the washing machine down the hall. Sae sat alone on the living room floor, a mini soccer ball tucked under one knee as he bent forward to adjust his socks.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him what to do. His socks had to be pulled right up, straight and even, like the pros he saw on TV. His fingers were small, clumsy sometimes, but he did it himself.

He always did it himself.

He stood up, wobbling just a little, and tapped the ball with the inside of his foot. 

It made a dull thud as it hit the wall, then rolled back to him in a lazy curve. He stopped it clean. Then again. And again. Practicing. Quietly.

Then, the soft shuffle of hands and knees on the floor.

Sae didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Rin had gotten faster at crawling. Faster and louder. The sound of him approaching was like the rustle of a small animal—uneven palms slapping the floor, the occasional grunt as he adjusted his path.

Sae sighed but didn’t turn. He kicked the ball again.

Thud. Roll. Stop.

He heard Rin pause behind him, then sit down with a soft, satisfied sound—almost like a little “haa,” the way kids did when they plopped into place.

Sae finally glanced back.

Rin was staring. Not blinking. Not smiling either. 

His deep green hair stuck out a little on the sides, and he had something crusted on the edge of his mouth. Cookie, probably.

“Don’t come too close,” Sae muttered, mostly out of habit. “You’ll get in the way.”

Rin blinked. Then grinned.

Sae narrowed his eyes.

The ball thudded again.

And Rin clapped.

Not well. Just two soft, offbeat pats. But his eyes sparkled like he’d just seen something incredible. Like Sae was a magician instead of a boy barely taller than the couch.

“…It’s not that special,” Sae said under his breath.

But for a moment, he stood still.

The ball sat between them.

Sae looked at it. Then at Rin. Then back again.

He didn’t offer it. Not this time either.

But he sat down. Just far enough to keep the ball between them.

And didn’t say a word when Rin scooted closer.

The water was warm. Not hot—Mom always made sure of that. 

She checked with her elbow first, then let Sae climb in while holding onto the side of the tub. The tiles were a soft beige, and the plastic dolphin sticker on the wall was peeling at the corner.

Sae sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, watching the ripples his toes made in the water. The bath always smelled like that faint soap scent—sweet and clean, like baby shampoo.

He liked baths. They were quiet. And he could think.

Then came the sound of squeaky footsteps and a high-pitched giggle.

Rin.

Mom appeared at the doorway holding him, wrapped in a puffy towel. His cheeks were flushed from heat, his hair wet and clinging to his forehead in stringy, deep green lines. He looked like a mop with a face.

Sae scooted a little as Rin was lowered into the tub, his bottom plopping down with a tiny splash. He blinked at the water, wide-eyed, then looked straight at Sae and beamed.

Sae exhaled.

“…You always look so dumb when you smile,” he said under his breath.

Rin slapped the water with both hands, sending waves toward Sae’s side.

“Hey—stop that!” Sae snapped, shielding his face with one arm. “You’re splashing everything.”

Mom just laughed behind them, stepping away. “Play nice, Sae. You’re the older brother, remember?”

Sae didn’t answer.

He watched Rin instead, who was now fully absorbed in chasing a yellow rubber duck floating in circles. Rin leaned too far and slipped forward a little, flailing as water got in his mouth. He coughed once—then started laughing again like nothing happened.

Sae stared. Then, without thinking, reached out and steadied Rin by the arm.

Rin blinked at him, lips parted.

“…Don’t be stupid,” Sae muttered, looking away.

For the rest of the bath, Rin stayed closer to him. Not clinging, but just near. Sometimes he’d look at Sae and giggle for no reason, as if the mere fact they were in the same tub was hilarious.

Sae let him.

And when Mom came in with a towel and called, “Time to get out,” Sae stood up first. But he didn’t leave.

He waited.

Watched as Mom wrapped Rin up, holding him close to her chest. And only then, as Rin buried his face in her neck, did Sae step out of the tub and quietly reach for his own towel.

He didn’t smile.

But he stayed a little longer in the room than he needed to.

The nightlight hummed faintly in the corner of the room.

It was shaped like a little star, casting soft yellow patterns across the wall. The shadows it made stretched long and wobbly, like they were drifting slowly, as if even they were too sleepy to hold their shape.

Sae lay on the futon, blanket up to his chin. His back faced the wall. His eyes were open.

He wasn’t really tired. Not yet.

The door creaked.

Sae heard footsteps—slow ones, padded, uneven. He didn’t need to look. He already knew who it was.

Then came the sound of rustling cloth, a soft bump, and a short, tired whimper. Something light touched the edge of Sae’s blanket. Then a small hand, clumsy and warm, flopped onto his arm.

Sae turned slightly.

Rin was half-asleep, sitting on his knees, blinking slowly in the dark like a confused kitten. His pajama shirt was half-tucked, and his hair was all over the place, one side sticking out stubbornly.

“You have your own futon,” Sae muttered, his voice a whisper. “Over there.”

Rin didn’t answer. His head drooped forward, bumping into Sae’s shoulder.

Sae stared.

He didn’t push him away.

Instead, he shifted his blanket, just a little—enough for Rin to crawl under. The moment the space opened, Rin flopped down beside him, nose-first into the pillow, grabbing the edge of Sae’s sleeve with tiny fingers.

His breathing slowed almost immediately.

Sae watched his brother’s face, half-lit by the soft glow from the star light. His lashes were long. His cheeks puffed a little as he exhaled. He looked… peaceful.

Small. Fragile, even.

“…Dummy,” Sae mumbled, so quietly he wasn’t sure if he meant for Rin to hear.

But he didn’t pull his arm away.

And soon, his eyes began to drift shut too.

The night ticked on, the little star flickering gently on the wall.

And for now, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like fresh wood and plastic wrap.

Sunlight poured in through the half-open curtains, catching motes of dust in the air. Somewhere down the hallway, their mom was humming, soft and aimless. A weekend kind of hum.

Sae stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring at the new bed.

It was big. Bigger than anything he’d ever slept on. Two beds stacked, with a small ladder on the side and rounded bars for safety. The frame was white with pale green stickers shaped like stars and clouds. Mom had said “It looks dreamy, doesn’t it?” with that proud tone adults used when they were too excited about furniture.

Rin was already crawling in circles on the bottom bunk, dragging his blanket like it was a cape.

“This one’s yours,” Mom had said earlier, patting the lower bed, “because you can’t climb up yet, Rin.”

Then she’d turned to Sae and added, “So the top is for you, alright? It’s your job to be careful up there.”

She’d smiled, proud.

Sae hadn’t smiled back. But he’d nodded.

Now, with the room quiet and Rin still babbling to himself below, Sae gripped the ladder and climbed.

Each step creaked softly. The top mattress was still stiff, the sheet tucked too tight. He knelt first, then sat cross-legged, resting his hands on the wooden bar and peering over the edge.

From up here, the room looked smaller.

He could see the bookshelf, the box of toys Rin never put away, the faded crayon marks on the wall. He could also see Rin, who had now flopped onto his stomach, humming to himself in a way only he understood.

Sae leaned back against the wall. The bar behind him was cool. The ceiling was just a little too close.

But he liked it.

It felt… higher. Quieter.

Safe.

He could hear Rin below, still moving, still muttering baby words to the blankets.

Sae’s fingers curled around the edge of his mattress.

Mom said Rin couldn’t climb yet. Yet .

But even if Rin could one day… even if he grew taller, and stronger, and old enough—

Sae pressed his cheek to the pillow, staring at the window’s square of sky.

This top bunk was his.

It always would be.

Rin drooled on everything.

The couch pillows. His shirt collars. The edge of Sae’s blanket. Even the tiny plastic lion Sae kept on the window sill—Rin had somehow gotten to it, chewed it, then left it face-down in a puddle of spit.

Sae stood in front of the lion now, arms crossed, watching a line of drool glisten down its back like some sad, glossy waterfall.

“…Gross,” he muttered.

He grabbed a tissue from the box and wiped it off, holding it between two fingers like it was poisonous. Then, without thinking, he turned to look for Rin.

He found him wobbling near the kitchen entrance, one sock off, a wooden spoon clutched in his sticky hand like it was treasure. His cheeks were round, puffed out as he babbled to himself and marched in zigzags. Mom was on the phone. Dad was at the table flipping through papers. They were both saying something, talking fast, nodding, moving—too busy to notice the spoon now covered in Rin’s newest batch of drool.

Sae sighed.

He walked over, reached out, and snatched the spoon away.

“Blegh,” he said. “You’re gonna choke.”

Rin blinked up at him, startled. Then smiled.

Big. Open. Drooly.

Sae paused, wiping the spoon with the same tissue and dropping it on the counter. Rin wobbled closer, reaching for Sae’s sleeve now. His hands were warm and damp.

Sae wrinkled his nose.

“Stop,” he said, but didn’t pull away. Rin gripped tighter, using him to balance as he squatted and stood and squatted again. Over and over like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. From the kitchen, Mom’s voice floated over— “Sae, can you just keep him with you a bit? I’ll come in a minute, okay?”

Sae didn’t answer.

He looked down at Rin.

The drooly grip. The sticky cheeks. The weird baby smell that wasn’t bad, just kind of milky and strange. And the way Rin leaned on him like it was natural. Like Sae was a wall, or a pole, or something solid.

Sae sat on the floor, legs stretched out.

Rin flopped down beside him, snuggling in close without permission. One of his fingers ended up in Sae’s sleeve. He kicked his feet like he was dreaming with his eyes open.

Sae stared at the ceiling.

Was this what Mom meant that day?

"From now on, you’re a big brother—nii-chan."

Back then, he didn’t understand. Not really.

But now—with a tissue in one hand and Rin’s drool drying on his arm—he thought maybe he was starting to.

Not in a big way.

Just a little.

Sae leaned back against the couch, his legs sprawled out in front of him. Rin had settled beside him again, leaning against his side, chewing on a toy car this time. His little hands were sticky, still clinging to anything he could grab, but his big eyes, bright and curious, were locked onto Sae like a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

He had been half-watching TV, half-staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his mind wandering like it usually did. But then, just as he reached to adjust the blanket around him, a soft sound broke through the quiet room.

“...Nii…”

Sae froze.

He blinked, unsure if he had heard it right. He looked down at Rin, whose mouth was still half-open, his tiny tongue poking out from between his lips as he struggled to pronounce the unfamiliar word.

"Nii..." Rin said again, quieter this time, as if testing the sound in his mouth. His teal eyes searched Sae’s face, a frown creasing his little brow as he waited for a response.

Sae’s chest tightened, something unfamiliar creeping up from deep inside him. He stared at Rin—his little brother, the baby who had only ever screamed or babbled incomprehensibly before.

Did he just call me?

His heart pounded in his ears. A rush of something thick and heavy mixed with surprise surged through him. His breath caught. He couldn’t explain it—not in a way that made sense, not for someone his age. But he could feel it, like something was stirring inside of him that hadn’t been there before.

Just then, Mom appeared in the doorway, her face lighting up as she caught sight of Rin.

“Rin! Did you say…?” Her voice was softer, sweeter, as she knelt down beside them. Her eyes sparkled in a way Sae had never seen before—like she had just witnessed something rare, something precious.

Sae shifted, feeling like a stranger in the room as his mom scooped Rin up in her arms. She held him tightly, a smile spreading across her face, her voice cracking with excitement as she looked at Sae.

“He said ‘Nii,’ Sae! Did you hear that? Rin can talk! Oh my goodness, my little baby!”

Rin squirmed a little in her arms, but he was too happy to protest. He babbled something else, still half-giggling, his eyes soft and trusting as he clung to their mom.

Sae’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, not sure why his chest hurt. Was it happiness? Was it something else? Something he didn’t quite understand yet?

Mom beamed, brushing her hand over Rin’s hair. “Come on, baby. Let’s go tell your father.” She turned, heading for the hallway, Rin securely in her arms.

As he watched them go, his mind buzzing with confusion, but the sting in his chest—was it pride? Or something deeper?—didn’t fade. He was still sitting there, frozen, as the sound of their footsteps echoed down the hall. His mother’s voice floated back to him, faint as she turned the corner. “Sae, Rin’s talking! Can you believe it?”

Sae barely registered the words.

He was still caught in the moment. That small, simple word.

Nii .

It made his heart beat a little faster.

The rest of the day was a blur of noise and celebration.

Mom kept going on about how proud she was of Rin, repeating “ he said ‘nii’ ” like it was some magical phrase she couldn’t stop savoring. Dad was busy too, walking around with that proud grin of his, clapping Rin on the back as if he had just scored the winning goal in a football game. The house felt warmer than usual, brighter too, like Rin’s first word had lit a fire that no one wanted to put out.

But Sae, sitting off to the side on the couch, wasn’t exactly part of it. Not entirely.

His fingers curled around the TV remote, the plastic cool against his skin. His mind, though, was somewhere else—somewhere quieter.

Rin’s voice kept echoing in his head. Nii .

It wasn’t a big thing, not like how grown-ups were reacting. It wasn’t like football—scoring a goal or making a perfect pass. Those things were clear. Simple. You practiced. You got better. You showed people what you could do.

But this? This was different. He didn’t know what to do with it. What was it supposed to mean when your baby brother suddenly said your name?

He called me “Nii.”

Sae slipped out the back door, the cool air cutting through his thoughts like a blade. He was tired of hearing everyone talk about it. Tired of smiling for Rin’s sake, even though he didn’t mind. He just… didn’t know how to react to this. So, he figured he would practice. It was something he understood.

The ball was already waiting for him on the grass—sitting still, almost patient. Sae jogged over, kicking it gently with the side of his foot. He didn’t need to practice anything big today. Just a few dribbles, a few tricks. The feel of the ball against his foot was familiar, like an old friend. He breathed in deeply, the tension starting to leave his shoulders with each kick.

But even as he did, his mind kept flicking back to Rin’s small face, his innocent eyes looking up at him like he knew something Sae didn’t. It wasn’t just the word. It was the way Rin had said it, like it was special. Like it meant something important.

Sae stopped mid-dribble. He stood there for a moment, the ball rolling lazily at his feet, and he glanced over at the door to the house. Maybe this was what being a “nii-chan” meant? Being there, even when you didn’t really know how to be. He looked back down at the ball. His chest felt a little tight again—like there was something he needed to understand, but it wasn’t clear. Not yet. Sae kicked the ball again, harder this time. It sailed through the air, landing with a satisfying thud against the side of the fence. He wiped his hands on his shorts, trying to shake off the feeling, but it lingered.

A soft sound from the doorway caught his attention. He turned and saw Rin standing there, barefoot and a little wobbly, his tiny face scrunched up in confusion.

Sae stared for a moment, frozen.

Rin’s eyes met his—wide, still as always, but now… maybe expecting something. He had heard the word. He had said it. And now, he was standing there, waiting for Sae to show him something.

Sae’s chest tightened, that same unfamiliar feeling rushing in again.

He looked away. There was only one thing he knew for sure. The ball at his feet.

Sae jogged toward it, dribbling with controlled ease, setting up for a clean shot. But his movements were slower than usual, more deliberate. He kept stealing glances over at Rin, watching the little one wobble toward him, arms outstretched like he wanted to be part of it all.

With a soft huff, Sae kicked the ball hard, aiming for the target—just like he always did.

The ball flew straight into the net.

He let out a quiet breath of satisfaction, but the feeling was gone as soon as it arrived. The feeling in his chest, the uncertainty, was still there, lingering like an unanswered question. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Rin lost in another fit of babbling or playing with something nearby.

But Rin was standing still, staring up at him.

Sae froze.

And for the first time in his short life, he wondered if maybe football wasn’t enough to answer all the questions. Maybe, just maybe, being a “big brother” had more to it than anything he had ever been taught on the field.

Sae didn’t know how to explain it. How could he? He was just a kid.

But when Rin’s little face broke into a smile, it hit him with the force of a tackle.

Maybe, for once, being a “big brother” wasn’t about what he could do on his own. Maybe it was about having someone there to share the moment. Even if that someone couldn’t do much yet.

But Sae felt something inside of him shift. That was enough. For now.

Chapter Text

Sae was already dressed by the time the sun peeked through the curtains.

He had woken up early—again. The top bunk made it easier. No need to wait for anyone. No need to be careful about not waking up Rin. From up there, the house always felt quieter, like he had a little secret space of his own.

He climbed down the ladder slowly, careful not to make it creak. The morning air felt cool against his skin, the floor cold under his socks. He passed their room’s low bookshelf, the stack of baby picture books he never really liked, and made his way to the door.

But just as he turned the handle, he paused.

A small sound came from behind him—something soft and sticky.

Schlick... schlick.

Sae turned around.

Rin was sitting up in bed, face squished against his pillow, drool trailing from the corner of his mouth onto the sheet. His arms flopped a little as he blinked slowly, still half-asleep. Then another string of drool slipped down his chin, making a wet spot on his sleeve.

Sae wrinkled his nose. Gross.

He walked over and stared for a long moment, arms crossed. “You’re drooling again,” he said, as if Rin could do anything about it. Rin blinked at him, head bobbing unsteadily. His little hands reached up for Sae, like they always did when he didn’t know what else to do.

Sae sighed. He reached for the corner of Rin’s blanket and wiped Rin’s chin clumsily. Then, without really thinking, he plopped down beside the small bed.

That’s when it hit him.

Mom and Dad weren’t there.

No sound of breakfast sizzling. No footsteps rushing around the kitchen. No sleepy voices saying “Good morning, Sae” or “Did Rin wake up too early again?”

He frowned.

It had been happening more. The quiet. The busy days. The way Mom would sometimes say, “Sae, can you help a bit with your brother?” while balancing a phone between her shoulder and her ear.

He didn’t mind, not really. But this morning, with Rin blinking up at him like that, he realized something strange. He had done all of this before. Wiping Rin’s drool. Waiting for Mom. Making sure his brother didn’t fall off the bed while trying to climb down.

It wasn’t something he thought about. He just did it.

Maybe this is what ‘nii-chan’ meant.

Not something you become. Just something you are.

He watched Rin’s head wobble, eyes already drifting shut again. A sticky trail of drool started to form on the blanket Sae had just wiped.

“…Seriously?” Sae muttered under his breath.

Still, he didn’t call out for Mom. He didn’t go back to bed either. He just stayed there, cross-legged on the floor next to Rin’s bed, watching the small, sleeping figure with the deep green hair and those too-big pajamas.

Sae rested his chin in his hand. There was nothing else to do. Nothing pressing. No football this early. No drills until the sun rose higher.

The silence didn’t feel so strange anymore.

It just felt like morning.

Their mom had left the dishes in the sink to soak. The gentle splash of water echoed from the kitchen while the morning sun filtered through the living room curtains, painting rectangles on the floor.

Sae sat on the rug, cross-legged, a crayon clutched in his fist. He was drawing. Or trying to. It looked like a person, maybe a football player, arms stretched too wide, one foot bigger than the other. Rin sat across from him, legs splayed like a frog, scribbling nonsense on the same paper. His grip on the green crayon was all wrong, and he kept pressing too hard, snapping the tips off every few minutes. Sae had stopped reacting to it. He just passed Rin a new color when one broke.

“Don’t draw on the lines,” Sae muttered, moving Rin’s hand out of the way so he could fix the figure’s mouth. “You’re ruining it.”

Rin blinked up at him.

Then smiled.

“Ni.”

Sae glanced at him. “What?”

“Ni,” Rin repeated. Then he laughed, as if that was the most hilarious sound in the world.

Sae stared for a moment.

Then rolled his eyes. “You’re weird.”

He reached over to fix Rin’s shirt—it had gotten twisted around his neck again—and then tucked the crayon box closer to them both. Rin leaned against him after that. No reason. Just scooted over until his shoulder touched Sae’s arm, and he kept drawing—circles, squiggles, a line that dragged all the way off the page.

Sae didn’t move away.

Even when Rin drooled again. It landed warm and slow on his sleeve.

He looked at it, sighed through his nose.

Then kept drawing.

After a while, Rin started humming.

Not a tune. Not even a real sound. Just an endless trail of “mm-mm-mm” under his breath as he pressed a yellow crayon into the paper like he was trying to break through it. His head kept tipping to the side, his body swaying ever so slightly until—

Thud.

His forehead bumped against Sae’s shoulder.

Sae looked down.

Rin didn’t move. Just stayed there, cheek smushed into his brother’s arm, fingers still loosely holding the yellow crayon.

“…You’re sleepy?” Sae asked.

No answer. Only a soft sniffle, then one eye blinking slowly.

Sae shifted, careful not to jostle him too much. He reached for the nearest pillow and dropped it beside them.

“Here,” he said, nudging Rin off his shoulder. Rin whined at the loss of contact but flopped over anyway, landing half on the pillow, half on Sae’s lap.

“You’re heavy,” Sae muttered, though he didn’t push him off.

Rin yawned. A huge, squeaky one.

Then, “Nii…”

Sae blinked. He glanced down.

Rin’s eyes were barely open. But he was looking up. At Sae.

For once, it wasn’t drool that fell from his lips—but the tiniest, drowsiest smile.

“…Tch.”

Sae looked away, ears tingling.

He didn’t move.

He sat there, legs a little numb, drawing forgotten, letting his little brother sleep on his lap while the sun crept slowly across the floor.

Sae woke to a sharp snip near his eye.

His breath caught.

There was something cold brushing his forehead.

And then—another snip .

His eyes snapped open.

Rin.

Hovering over him with a pair of scissors.

Tiny hands clutched the metal awkwardly, one finger sticking through the wrong loop. His face was all squint and focus, tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth like he was coloring, not cutting.

“W-What are you doing?!” Sae jolted upright.

The scissors jerked in Rin’s hand—thankfully away from his face—but not before another small lock of pink-red hair fluttered to the floor.

Sae's hands shot out, pushing Rin back instinctively. Not hard, just startled.

Rin fell onto his butt with a loud thump , eyes wide.

Sae scrambled to sit up fully, hand over his bangs, heart pounding. His fingers brushed against the uneven, freshly snipped ends of hair.

He could feel it already.

It was bad.

“ Rin!! What’s wrong with you?!”

Rin didn’t answer. Just looked down at the scissors in his hand like he didn’t understand how they got there either. Then came footsteps. Fast. Sharp. Their mom turned the corner in a hurry—and froze at the sight.

The scissors. The hair. The guilty faces.

Her eyes went huge. “What on earth ?!”

“Mama—” Sae started, but Rin burst out crying before he could finish.

Loud, wet sobs, all gasps and hiccups and a face scrunched in panic.

“Rin!” she rushed over and scooped him into her arms, turning the scissors over with one hand. “ Sae! Where did he even get these? You’re supposed to watch— he could’ve gotten hurt! ”

“I didn’t—” Sae stopped. He didn’t even know how to explain it. He had been asleep. That was the truth. But that didn’t seem like something Mom wanted to hear right now.

Rin kept crying.

Loudly.

Their mom sighed, clearly furious and worried and overwhelmed all at once. She didn’t say anything else. She just carried Rin away, cradling him against her chest as his cries echoed down the hall.

Leaving Sae alone.

With uneven bangs, a scissor mark nearly too close to his eye, and a tight sting in his chest he couldn’t name.

He didn’t move for a while.

Just sat there, hand still over his forehead, the weight of everything Rin didn’t know and everything Sae hadn’t done pressing heavy on his shoulders.

Later, Mom came back.

Rin was asleep. Somewhere else.

She didn’t scold anymore. Just knelt beside Sae with a comb and a small pair of child scissors, the ones they used for crafts.

“This,” she murmured, brushing his bangs gently, “is the best we can do now.”

Sae didn’t say anything.

He only watched the small strands fall into his lap, each snip clean, sharp, straight. After a while, his reflection in the hall mirror showed a boy with a flat, serious fringe. A little too short. A little too neat. A little too… him.

He frowned at it.

“I hate it,” he muttered.

His mom laughed softly, brushing a bit of hair off his cheek. “It’ll grow back.”

But something about it felt permanent.

It was late when Rin wandered back into the room.

His eyes were still puffy, his nose a little pink. He wasn’t crying anymore, but his steps were unsure, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed back in yet. Sae was sitting on the floor with a ball between his knees, bouncing it lightly with both hands.

He didn’t look up right away.

Rin stood a few feet away, fingers curled into his shirt. He sniffled once, then rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

Then he mumbled, “…Nii…”

Sae stopped bouncing the ball.

Still didn’t look up.

Rin took a step closer. Then another. Until he was standing right next to Sae’s knee.

His voice wobbled. “Nii… bang.”

Sae frowned. “What?”

Rin reached up, tiny fingers gently tapping Sae’s forehead—right at the line of his new haircut.

“Bang,” he repeated. And then, like he had practiced the word all afternoon, added, “Sowwy.”

Sae blinked.

It wasn’t the best apology. It wasn’t even a full sentence. But it was enough. He stared at Rin’s serious little face for a second, then let out a soft huff and knocked the ball lightly into Rin’s stomach.

Rin oofed and caught it with both hands, surprised.

Sae looked away, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “…It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.”

The litttle brother sat down beside him with the ball in his lap and nodded.They didn’t say anything else. But when Sae leaned back on his hands and glanced toward the hallway mirror again, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. The blunt, neat fringe still looked weird. Still made him look like some kid on a TV show.

But…

When he squinted, he realized something.

He could actually see better now.

No bangs in his eyes. No stray strands sticking to his forehead when he sweated. The world looked just a little clearer.

He tapped the ball once more, letting it roll away and chasing after it.

Maybe the haircut wasn’t so bad.

Maybe it even made him better at football.

Sae smirked to himself, just a little.

“…Still hate it though,” he muttered.

But he didn’t mean it the same way anymore.

It started small.

Rin climbing on the edge of the couch like it was a cliff.

At first, Sae thought it was funny. His weird little brother with his straight green hair and permanent drool, standing up high with a plastic fork in his hand like it was a sword. But then Rin jumped.

And missed the cushion.

He landed flat, chin smacking the floor with a loud thud. There was a second of complete silence. Then, screaming. Their mom came running, scooping him up while checking every inch of his face, holding his head like it was going to fall off. “Rin! Why—why would you do that?! You’re going to break your neck!”

Sae just stood there, still on the couch, feet tucked under him. He tilted his head slightly.

Rin didn’t even look scared. He was crying, but it wasn’t the scared kind. It was the hurt-and-surprised kind. Like he didn’t expect it to go wrong.

That was the first time.

The next time, Rin tried to balance on the backrest of the couch. Like walking a tightrope. He made it halfway across before slipping and knocking over a lamp. The crash brought Mom in again. This time, her voice was sharper. Her arms more frantic.

"Why do you keep doing this?"

Rin blinked through messy bangs, looking up at her from the floor. His lip wobbled, but he didn’t answer.

Sae, sitting cross-legged in the corner with his ball in his lap, was starting to notice a pattern.

Rin wasn’t clumsy.

He was trying things.

Trying things that would obviously hurt.

Sae looked down at his ball. He kicked it once against the wall. Let it roll back. Then he looked back at his brother—now in their mother’s arms again, cheeks pressed against her shoulder, his eyes still scanning the room like he was searching for something else to climb.

Weird, Sae thought.

Really weird.

Was this… what it meant to be a little brother?

He glanced at his mom.

She looked so tired.

Maybe this was also what it meant to be a big brother.

To watch. To notice. To wonder.

He didn’t know yet that watching Rin would become a habit.

But that was how it began.

Chapter Text

Sae came home tired.

His legs ached a little, and his bag was heavy with sweaty clothes. His coach had made him do extra drills today because he kept zoning out. Not that he’d admit it, but maybe it was because he didn’t sleep well the night before—Rin had cried half the night after a nightmare.

Still, the moment Sae stepped inside, the house was… quiet. And honestly it was too quiet to his liking. Not that he had much power to decide how the house should be. He walked in anyway.

He dropped his bag by the door. “Mom?”

No answer came as Sae walked further in and heard faint clinks—like metal tapping glass.

Then a grunt.

Then— crash .

Sae ran.

He found Rin in the kitchen. A chair pushed right up to the counter. A mess of spoons scattered across the floor. And Rin, sitting on his butt with a stunned look, holding his elbow and blinking fast.

A red mark already forming.

Sae rushed over, “What did you do ?”

Rin’s lip trembled, “I wanted the shiny one…”

He looked at the shelf, the top shelf where their mom kept the measuring spoons. All metal and silver and shaped like little cups. Rin had definitely been reaching for those.

“You can’t climb stuff when no one’s watching you!”

“I was careful,” Rin sniffled.

“No, you weren’t!”

Sae’s heart was pounding. His hand hovered over Rin’s arm, unsure whether to touch it or not.

It wasn’t broken. Just bruised.

Still—

Sae looked around. Mom wasn’t home. Maybe she went out to grab groceries. Maybe she thought Sae could handle it.

He clenched his fists. A thought ame into his mind. This is what she meant, right? Being the big brother?

Rin sniffled again and looked up at him, “Nii-chan…”

Sae crouched slowly. Reached for Rin’s hand and pulled him up. Gently.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the kitchen stool, “Don’t move.”

He grabbed a cold can from the fridge—soda, the only thing cold enough—and gently pressed it to Rin’s elbow. Rin winced, but didn’t cry.

Sae didn’t speak for a while. He just stood there, watching his brother cradle a soda can like it was a treasure, “…You’re so stupid sometimes,” Sae muttered. But his voice wasn’t angry.

His little brother blinked at him. “But I got the spoon.”

Sae rolled his eyes. But something about it—about this scene, the bruised elbow, the little victory, the silence between them—made something settle in his chest.

This kid wasn’t going to stop doing dumb things. So maybe Sae just had to keep catching him.

Sae was already feeling the weight of the day when Mom came back home. 

He was still sitting on the floor, arms crossed, quietly watching Rin go from playing with his blanket to now humming something that didn’t even sound like words. It wasn’t exactly ‘calm,’ but it was quiet enough for Sae to catch his breath for a moment.

The front door slammed open, and then the familiar sound of grocery bags rustling and keys jangling filled the air. “Rin! Sae!” their mom’s sharp voice called out, but Sae knew by now it wasn’t a question—it was a command.

Rin shot up and dashed to her, already squealing, “Mama!” 

Sae stayed where he was, his shoulders slumping as he observed from the corner of the room.

Then he heard it, the sharp intake of breath from their mom, the click of her shoes as she approached, and then—“What happened to his arm?” she asked, her voice suddenly low, tight with frustration.

“I… He fell. He was climbing again,” Sae said, his eyes focused on his hands. 

“I told you not to let him climb the counter again!” she snapped, tone rising. Her eyes were narrow, her brow furrowed with displeasure as she examined Rin’s arm. “It’s swollen! How could you let this happen?”

“I—I stopped him before it got worse, Mom,” Sae stammered, not sure whether he should defend himself or not. 

But his mother wasn’t looking at him. She was glaring at Rin, who was obliviously bouncing up and down in her arms, his wide eyes blinking up at her.

"Climbing! Climbing again! What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, voice rough. “Didn’t I tell you to stay off the counters? What happens if you fall and break something?!”

Rin’s lip quivered, but he didn’t cry. He never not that much anymore, really cried—just stared up at their mom like he was trying to figure her out. 

Mom shot a sharp look at Sae, making him flinch. “This is your responsibility too! I can't always be around to keep an eye on you two, but if something happens, I’m counting on you, Sae! Do you understand me?!”

Sae nodded quickly. “Yes, Mom.”

She turned back to Rin, frowning. “What am I going to do with you, Rin?”

The boy mumbled something that sounded like “It’s okay” and wriggled in her arms, clearly trying to escape. 

She sighed heavily, but instead of comforting him, she just dropped him back onto the floor and stood up, still shaking her head. “You’re lucky it’s nothing serious, you little brat.”

Rin, now sitting on the floor, looked up at her in confusion, then at Sae. He didn’t seem particularly hurt anymore, just a little dazed. Their mom’s frustration didn’t seem to subside. She turned to Sae. “Don’t let this happen again. If you’re supposed to be the big brother, act like it.” Sae gulped, the scolding cutting deeper than he expected. He hated the way she said it—like it was his fault. Like he was the one who should’ve been more careful.

Before he could respond, she gave a sharp sigh, her frustration turning into something close to resignation. “Anyway, you better not make me say this again. Keep an eye on him.”

She turned away without saying much else, busying herself with putting away the groceries. Rin, meanwhile, had already started kicking his blanket around again, lost in his own world.

Sae swallowed hard and walked over to his little brother, kneeling down to stare at his face. 

“You better be careful next time,” he said, trying to sound stern, but his voice wavered a little. 

Rin just nodded, but he didn’t understand. Not really.

Later that evening, after dinner, Sae sat quietly in the living room, his ball bouncing lightly against his foot. He wasn’t really in the mood to practice—his mom’s words still stung a little. He knew he was supposed to be the responsible one, but it didn’t feel like he ever got any credit for it. 

Rin had already managed to drag a chair over to the corner of the room and was now stacking empty cardboard boxes, trying to make a “fort” out of them.

Sae sighed, running his fingers through his hair. 

It didn’t matter what he did, it always felt like he was the one who had to handle everything. And even when he tried to do his best, Mom didn’t seem to care. Just then, Rin let out a small giggle and toppled over, the boxes spilling all over the floor. Sae’s immediate reaction was to jump up, but this time, he hesitated. 

Rin wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t crying. He was fine.

Sae rubbed his temples, feeling more tired than usual. "Rin... you really are something," he muttered under his breath. But as he looked at his brother, who was now getting up and dusting himself off, something flickered in his chest. It wasn’t exactly pride—but something close to it. Maybe… this was just how it was. 

How it always would be. He’d always be the one who had to look after Rin, whether their mom scolded him or not.

The house was quiet now, the only sound being the soft hum of the refrigerator in the background and the occasional creak of the old house settling. Sae sat on the floor, his legs crossed, still playing with his ball absently. His mind wasn’t really on the game. 

He kept glancing over at Rin, who had fallen asleep on the couch, snuggled under a blanket his mom had tossed over him. The boy’s soft breaths rose and fell gently, a small smile on his face even in sleep.

It was a rare moment of peace.

Sae felt a quiet sense of responsibility stirring inside him. He’d been carrying it for a while now, especially after today. The weight of his mom’s anger, the nagging about Rin, and the sense of obligation to make sure everything went smoothly—that was what being a big brother felt like, wasn’t it?

The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Sae turned to see his mom stepping into the living room. 

Her shoulders were slumped, her hair slightly out of place, as if she had just gotten home from a long day. Her eyes, once sharp and full of frustration, now softened when she saw Sae still awake.

“Sae,” she said softly, her voice quieter than usual. “Are you still up?”

Sae didn’t answer right away, instead looking back at Rin’s peaceful form. His mom hesitated for a moment before sitting beside him, a sigh escaping her lips. The tension between them from earlier in the day hung in the air, but it wasn’t as thick now. Maybe it was because Rin was asleep, and there was nothing left to fight about.

“You know,” she started after a beat, her voice softening further, “I’m sorry for getting angry earlier. I just... got a little too stressed with work and everything, and when I came home, seeing Rin like that... I lost my temper.” 

Sae didn’t look at her, but he nodded, unsure what to say. He was used to her scolding, used to her always being busy with work. But it didn’t make him feel better. 

The apology didn’t change how he felt.

“I understand," Sae muttered, trying to sound more grown-up than he felt. 

His mom noticed the tone, and she reached out, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "I know it’s not easy, Sae. You’re the big brother now. I’m counting on you to keep an eye on Rin when I’m not around. Your father... he’s busy with his own work. And I’m usually stretched thin.”

Sae glanced at his mom for a split second, but her eyes were already turned to the floor, almost as if she was speaking to herself. She wasn’t looking for a response—just saying what was expected.

“But I’m doing my best, Mom. You don’t always have to tell me.” Sae's voice was quiet, more a statement than a protest. 

He didn’t want her to feel guilty, not really. 

He just... didn’t know how to make her understand that he didn’t need constant reminders. The pressure weighed on him. But he could never really put it into words, could he?

His mom gave a small sigh. She didn’t argue, though. Instead, she placed her hand on his head, ruffling his hair in the way she always did when she was feeling something between frustration and affection. “I know, Sae,” she murmured. “I know. But sometimes I forget you’re still just a little kid. You shouldn’t have to be the one who takes care of everything.”

Sae wasn’t sure what to say. He knew she wasn’t just talking about today. She was talking about all the times she expected him to be more than he was, all the times she depended on him without really acknowledging it. He could sense it, even at five years old. It wasn’t her fault—he knew that—but it didn’t change the feeling.

"I can do it," he said, trying to sound sure of himself, even though it didn’t feel entirely true. "It’s... it’s what I’m supposed to do, right?"

His mom gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes fully. She wasn’t really looking at him now. Instead, she was lost in her thoughts, gazing at Rin as he lay on the couch, unaware of the conversation unfolding around him. “Yeah,” she finally said, her voice distant. “You’re his big brother now.”

Sae felt a knot in his chest. It wasn’t the reassurance he was hoping for, and her words only reminded him of the responsibility that had already started to feel too big for someone his age. 

As his mom stood up to leave, she cast one last glance back at him. “You’re doing well, Sae. I’m proud of you, even if I don’t always say it.”

But Sae didn’t respond. He didn’t need to hear it—he didn’t know if he could accept it yet.

The house went quiet again, save for the occasional soft sounds of Rin shifting in his sleep. Sae sat still, his fingers now tracing the seams of his ball, lost in thought.

It was a strange feeling, being told he was “doing well” when everything inside of him felt like he was only getting started. His mom’s words hadn’t made him feel any lighter—they didn’t change the fact that his world now revolved around being the big brother, the one who had to make sure everything stayed together when their parents couldn’t.

Sae glanced over at Rin again, still fast asleep. Maybe it was just something he had to get used to. Maybe this was what being a big brother really meant.

He leaned back against the couch, the weight of responsibility pressing on his small shoulders as he watched his little brother sleep peacefully, unaware of the world Sae was now shouldering alone.

At five years old, Sae truly understood the weight of his role. 

The pressure wasn’t going away. But as he sat there, still holding his ball, he realized he didn’t mind. Because for all the work, for all the scolding, for all the moments that would never be perfect—he would always be the one to look after Rin.

The next day.

It started like most days did—early, quiet, and with a tired yawn muffled into his pillow. Sae had woken up first again. He was getting used to that too.

He rolled over and peeked over the edge of the bed. Rin was curled up below on the lower bunk, clutching his blanket like it was a lifeline, hair sticking in all directions, mouth wide open in deep sleep. A thin string of drool had pooled on the pillow.

Sae sighed softly.

Once, he might’ve been grossed out. Now? It was just Rin. 

He pulled back from the railing and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t even mind the smell of baby shampoo lingering from last night’s bath. It was familiar. Like background noise he could never switch off.

He hopped down quietly, feet cold against the wooden floor, and padded out toward the kitchen. He knew the drill—get the milk out, pour Rin a little cup. Wait for Mom to come in, still half-dressed for work and already talking about being late. She always talked about being late.

But today was different.

Mom was already at the table, sipping coffee in her work clothes, scrolling through her phone with a deep frown. She didn’t notice Sae at first, not until he opened the fridge and grabbed the milk.

She glanced up, barely pausing. “You’re up early. Rin still asleep?”

“Yeah.”

She made a vague sound in response, tapping her screen again. “Get something in your stomach. Don’t go to practice on an empty one.”

Sae poured milk for both himself and Rin and grabbed two slices of bread. There were no eggs today, no warm breakfast. Just bread and milk. He didn’t complain.

They ate in silence for a while—just the soft clink of his cup and the quiet hum of the fridge. Then, suddenly—

Thud. Pad pad pad.

And Rin appeared, messy and half-asleep, dragging his blanket like some small ghost. His cheeks puffed in irritation. He didn’t like mornings.

He waddled in, head swiveling left and right, and without a word, went straight for Sae, bumping into his side like a magnet. Sae instinctively shifted his milk out of reach before Rin’s flailing limbs could knock it over.

“You forgot your blanket,” Sae muttered, brushing Rin’s bed hair flat with one hand.

Rin blinked up at him, confused. “It’s here…”

Sae gave him the corner of his bread without thinking. Rin took it, munching.

Mom barely glanced up. “Rin, don’t get crumbs all over your brother.”

Rin didn’t respond, too busy chewing. Sae gave a noncommittal shrug and wiped Rin’s mouth with the back of his sleeve.

He didn’t even notice the drool anymore.

Later that day.

Football practice had left Sae sweaty and tired. His limbs ached in a good way—the kind that told him he was getting faster, sharper. His coach had even patted his back today. Said something about how hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard. Sae didn’t fully get it, but it sounded like a compliment.

He got home just before sunset.

The house was filled with the sound of a plastic toy banging against a wall. Over and over. It stopped once Rin noticed him.

“Nii-chan!” Rin bounded forward, arms flung open like he’d been waiting all day just for Sae to return.

Sae only had a second before Rin crashed into his legs.

“Whoa, whoa—careful.” He steadied Rin, half-amused. “What are you doing?”

Rin looked up, grinning. “I make the chair jump! It fell down, but I fix it! It almost go boom!”

Sae blinked. That… didn’t explain much. “You almost broke the chair again?”

Rin nodded proudly. “Yup.”

Sae sighed. Mom was gonna yell again. “Don’t touch anything sharp. Or tall. Or heavy.”

“Okay,” Rin agreed way too fast, already running back to the living room.

Sae took off his shoes, still smiling a little. Rin was weird. And loud. And dangerous to furniture. But…

When he walked past the living room, he stopped.

Rin was trying to stack two cushions to make a tower. For what purpose, Sae didn’t know. But the smile on his face—that wild energy, that stupid focus—it was weirdly fun to watch.

Something about it made Sae pause in the hallway and stay just a little longer.

Chapter Text

The house felt quieter like usual.

Their parents had already left for work. Mom had shouted a reminder about lunch boxes in the fridge. Dad had just grunted something while fixing his tie. Rin had stood by the door the whole time, clutching his tiny shoes like he might get left behind. Again.

But they didn’t.

So, by mid-morning, both brothers found themselves outside. The sun was warm, and the neighborhood park was nearly empty.

Sae had brought his ball. Not the big one they used during team practice—this was his smaller one, scuffed at the sides, but still perfect for juggling, dribbling, passes against the curb. It felt right in his hand.

He kicked. Stepped back. Caught the rebound.

“Don’t go far,” he told Rin, who was already darting toward the jungle gym.

“I won’t!”

“You say that every time.”

Rin didn’t answer. He had already climbed halfway up the monkey bars.

Sae ignored it. Sort of.

He went back to his footwork, sharp and focused. Heel-tap, drag, inside cut, repeat. The rhythm was like breathing. Sae liked it better this way. Just him and the ball.

He didn’t have to talk. Didn’t have to explain why he practiced even when there was no team. Football was something that never talked back.

Another kick.

Another catch.

And then—

“NIICHAN!! LOOK!!”

Sae turned in time to see Rin standing—no, crouching on the very top bar of the monkey structure, arms out like wings.

“Don’t—Rin—!”

And then Rin jumped.

Sae’s chest twisted.

There was that moment, just a flicker of suspended air, where time stopped. Rin’s little body mid-flight. His smile wide. His eyes lit up like he was chasing something invisible.

Then the thud of landing, knees buckling, hands scraping into the gravel.

Sae ran over immediately.

“You idiot! What was that?! Are you stupid?!” His voice cracked sharper than he meant.

Rin was on his knees, blinking in surprise, hands scratched and red. For a moment, he didn’t cry. He just looked at Sae with a confused sort of awe.

“But I did it,” Rin mumbled.

“You jumped off a monkey bar. You could’ve hit your head. You could’ve—!” Sae stopped, breath tight. “You could’ve died, dummy.”

Rin’s mouth trembled.

And there it was—the tears.

Sae crouched beside him, frustration melting just enough to let something else in. He took Rin’s tiny wrists and looked at the scratches. They stung, sure, but nothing broken.

Still. That didn’t mean it was okay.

“Why would you even do that?” he muttered, softer now.

Rin sniffled. “Because... because I wanna be like the monster I saw on TV! He jump from roof and land and he’s not scared and he fight the world—!”

Sae stared at him.

Of course. Of course Rin thought he was some kind of super monster. Sae exhaled sharply and sat down on the gravel, “You’re not a monster. You’re four.”

Rin crawled into his side, sticky with tears and dust. Sae let him, even as he wrinkled his nose.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pack of tissues their mom always forced him to bring. He wiped Rin’s face roughly, then held his hand.

“Just… don’t do it again. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Rin mumbled something into his sleeve.

“What?”

“…I landed though.”

Sae gave him a long, tired stare.

Then, very quietly—he snorted. Just once. Almost a laugh. “You’re such an idiot,” he said. But he didn’t let go of Rin’s hand.

They came home just before lunch, Sae dragging his feet a little and Rin walking faster than usual, like if he moved quickly enough, the scrapes on his hands might disappear.

But they didn’t.

And of course, the moment they stepped through the door—

“Rin. What happened to your hands?!”

Their mom’s voice cut across the hallway like a slap. She was in the kitchen still half in her work clothes, hair tied up in a loose bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her eyes narrowed the moment she spotted the red scrapes and dirt still clinging to Rin’s knees.

Rin froze. Instantly. His little hand squeezed tighter around Sae’s.

“I asked a question!”

“He jumped off the monkey bar,” Sae answered, before Rin could try to lie—or worse, cry.

“You what ?!” she marched over, kneeling quickly to inspect the damage. Not gently. Her fingers were quick and firm, turning Rin’s palms over, checking his knees, brushing dust off a shallow cut.

“What were you thinking?! Why do you always do this to yourself?” she snapped.

Rin whimpered. “I just—”

“Don’t even start. We’ve told you before, no dangerous stuff outside! What if you hit your head?! You think I have time to run to the hospital every week?!”

“It’s not—he’s not bleeding that bad,” Sae said, quieter now. Not defending Rin exactly. Just… saying it.

But their mom’s attention snapped to him next.

“And you, Sae. You were there, weren’t you?! What were you doing while he nearly broke his neck?!”

Sae opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat tightened. He wanted to say he was practicing. That Rin said he wouldn’t go far. That he told him to be careful. That Rin was just being Rin.

But none of that would matter. Not to her.

“I thought I could trust you,” she muttered, not yelling anymore. That part was worse. “You’re the older one. If you’re not watching him, who is? Your dad and I don’t have time to come home to this.”

Sae looked down. His hands clenched at his sides. Something in his chest curled up, like a knot pulled too tight.

His mom sighed. She didn’t apologize. She never did when she snapped like that.

“Go wash your hands,” she told Rin, standing back up. “And don’t touch anything. I’ll get the medicine kit.”

Rin scampered off, eyes wet but holding back tears now.

Sae stayed still.

His mother didn’t even look at him when she said, “You too. Don’t just stand there.”

He moved.

But the whole time, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice—“If you’re not watching him, who is?”

It echoed in his mind louder than Rin’s crying. And Sae didn’t know what to do with that kind of guilt.

It was late when Sae walked past their shared room.

He wasn’t planning to stop. He meant to go straight to the bathroom, brush his teeth, do what he always did before bed. But the door was cracked open just enough, and the light from the hallway spilled in softly.

Inside, Rin was already asleep.

Half-curled under his blanket, face buried against the pillow, his knees pulled up like a shrimp. His palms, now cleaned and bandaged, peeked out from beneath the covers. His cheeks still looked puffy, as if the tears from earlier had only dried recently.

Sae hovered by the doorway.

He remembered how Rin had looked at him after their mom got mad. Not angry. Not even sad. Just… waiting. Like Rin didn’t understand, but still expected something. Comfort, maybe.

Sae hadn’t said anything

He’d gone to his room. Closed the door. Played with his ball until the ache in his stomach settled into silence.

Now, standing here, he watched his little brother sleep and noticed the tiny things again—like how Rin kicked his blanket off halfway, or how his thumb was almost back in his mouth, a habit their mom had tried to break last month.

Sae stepped in.

Quietly, slowly, he walked over and reached down to pull the blanket back over Rin’s legs.

His bangs—crooked and still growing out from that scissor incident—fell into his eyes, and he blew them aside as he crouched. He looked at Rin for a long time.

“…You scared her today,” he whispered. “You scared me too, a little.”

Rin didn’t move.

Sae didn’t expect him to. But he still waited a second longer before standing.

As he turned to leave, he paused by the door again.

He didn’t have words for it, but there was something new and quiet that settled in his chest. Heavy, but not bad.

Maybe this was another meaning as a big brother, to feels hurt and held a responsibility towards the younger one. Although it layered with a little pain and scolding. 

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the rooftops, its light bleeding orange across the living room floor.

Sae was by the entryway, his foot tapping a steady rhythm against the ball. One, two, three—small bounces, barely any noise. It was something he could do forever. He liked the sound of it, the control. It made the world quieter.

On the other side of the room, Rin was curled up on the floor, glued to the TV. Evolveman. Again. He clutched a pillow to his chest like a shield, eyes wide and unmoving.

Sae didn’t need to look to know the kind of scene playing—those flashy, loud battles. Heroes and villains shouting about justice and strength.

But then—

“I wanna be like the monster.”

The ball slipped off Sae’s foot, rolling away with a soft thud. He turned. Rin didn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, voice quiet but certain.

“He fights someone stronger… gives everything he has… and dies.” A pause. “I wanna die like that too.”

Sae just stood there, his breath caught somewhere in his chest.

“Rin...” he said, not scolding, not questioning—just saying his name, like it would be enough to bring him back from wherever his head had gone.

It wasn’t the first weird thing Rin had said, but this... this was different. Sae was only six, but even he could feel it. Something about the way Rin said it—like he meant it.

A beat passed. Then Rin turned his head, a tiny smile flickering across his face, like he'd said something good.

Sae didn’t smile back.

He bent down, picked up his ball again. Let the silence swallow them.

One, two, three—he started juggling it again, but slower this time. He didn’t say anything else. But that moment stayed with him. Even at six, Sae began to understand: Rin was not like other kids.

And maybe being a "nii-chan" meant learning to carry that silence too.

It was early. The kind of quiet morning where the air still smelled like dew and the only sound came from the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

Sae stood in the hallway, just out of sight. He hadn’t meant to listen—he just didn’t want to walk in while they were talking. And then he heard Rin’s name.

“That boy’s going to break something one of these days,” their mother muttered, sharp and tired. “He climbed the monkey bars and jumped, can you believe that? Jumped! Like it was nothing!”

Their dad sighed, heavy. “Maybe he’s just… trying to be brave? Kids do dumb things sometimes.”

“Brave?” Her voice was dry. “More like reckless. Yesterday it was the monkey bars. A week ago he got that bump from the swing. Before that, he bit a kid who took his stick.”

Sae’s brow twitched.

There was a pause, and then she added in a lower tone, “If this keeps going, I don’t know what we’re going to do. I barely have time for work and the house, and now this. I can’t be dragging him to the clinic every week.”

“He’s just four,” their dad said, but softer now. Less certain.

“Exactly. What’s he going to be like when he’s five? Six? You’d think after getting hurt once or twice, he’d learn .”

Sae didn’t move.

He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to walk in. Maybe they’d get mad if they knew he was listening.

He looked down at his hand, the fingers flexing slightly. He remembered Rin landing on the gravel yesterday, scraping both knees but trying not to cry. The way he gritted his teeth and stood up like he’d won something. Not sad. Not scared. Just… stubborn.

Sae didn’t think Rin wanted to be hurt.

But maybe—he didn’t mind it? And that scared the adults. And somehow, hearing all of this—Sae didn’t feel older. Or wiser. Or more responsible. He just felt… something heavy settle in his chest. Like a thread that tugged tighter than usual.

He turned away, quietly, and walked back to their room. The ball by his bed waited for him, but he didn’t pick it up. Not yet.

Later that day, the sky had turned a soft shade of gold. The kind of light that made their little yard glow. Sae stood by the sliding door, ball under his arm, watching Rin crouched near a row of dandelions.

He wasn’t doing anything dangerous. Not this time. Just poking the little yellow heads with a stick and mumbling something under his breath.

Sae stepped out, letting the door thud shut behind him. Rin looked up with wide eyes—then grinned.

“Look,” Rin said, sticking the battered stick toward him like a sword. “This one’s the final boss.”

Sae blinked. “The flower?”

“Yeah. It’s got poison.” Rin smacked the dandelion dramatically. “I’m gonna die after I defeat it.”

Sae squatted beside him. The dandelion wobbled, still rooted.

“Rin,” he said slowly, “do you like getting hurt?”

Rin paused, head tilting. He looked confused for a second. “No,” he mumbled. “It’s scary sometimes. But… it’s cool too. Like Evolveman.”

“You said yesterday you wanted to die like the monster.”

Rin’s eyebrows scrunched, like he was thinking hard. “Yeah. He was strong. And even when he lost, it was like—boom! Everyone remembered him.”

Sae didn’t say anything.

Rin stared at the stick in his hand. “I wanna be strong too,” he said, not looking at Sae. “Not the hero. Just… someone strong. Even if it’s scary.”

There was silence between them. Only the sound of wind brushing through leaves.

Then Rin looked up, smile returning. “But I don’t really wanna die…”

Sae let out a quiet breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Rin was four.

He didn’t understand what he was saying. Not all the way. He just wanted to play. To matter. To feel brave in his own weird little way. Sae leaned back on his palms, eyes scanning the clouds. Maybe that’s what being a nii-chan really was—watching the storm build behind someone who didn’t even know they were walking into it.

He said nothing more, just stayed there, while Rin started stabbing dandelions again.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and the sun filtered softly through the curtains. 

Sae was sprawled on the floor in the living room, a football between his feet, kicking it back and forth. His focus was sharp as always, lost in the rhythm of his practice. Every now and then, his foot would hit the ball just right, sending it spinning with a satisfying thud.

Meanwhile, Rin was in his own world. 

He’d somehow managed to turn the coffee table into a makeshift obstacle course, stacking up the cushions into a small fort. The little monster was darting in and out of his fortress, jumping from cushion to cushion like he was evading an army of invisible enemies.

“Rin,” Sae muttered, eyes not leaving the ball. “What are you doing now?”

Rin paused, crouched behind a cushion, and grinned wildly. “I’m fighting the villain!” he shouted, his voice filled with excitement. “You can’t stop me!”

Sae rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Rin was always like this—full of energy, never thinking things through. He knew it would be only a matter of time before his little brother tried something reckless.

"You're gonna fall off again," Sae said, not really concerned—more like a warning that had already been proven wrong a hundred times. "Do you ever stop and think before you do stuff?"

Rin popped his head out from behind the cushion, eyes wide and full of mischief. “I’m invincible, nii-chan!” he declared, launching himself off the coffee table and landing on the floor with a loud thud. He grinned up at his brother. “See?”

Sae sighed, but this time he didn’t bother correcting him. 

It wasn’t worth it. Rin was just going to do whatever he wanted, no matter how much Sae warned him. Still, there was something amusing about how unbothered Rin always seemed, even if he ended up with a scrape or two.

Sae finally kicked the ball over to Rin. “Here. Try this. Bet you can’t keep it in the air for more than ten seconds.”

Rin blinked, his expression immediately shifting from chaotic excitement to intense focus. “I can do it!” he declared, grinning fiercely. He kicked the ball, but it bounced awkwardly off his foot, rolling away toward the corner of the room.

Sae chuckled. “Try again.”

Rin raced after the ball, determined to prove his brother wrong. The two of them spent the next few minutes kicking the ball back and forth, Rin’s enthusiasm making up for his lack of coordination.

Even though Rin wasn’t the best at football— yet —Sae couldn’t help but feel a little proud. His little brother might be reckless, but he had a fire in him that was hard to ignore.

Eventually, Rin got distracted again. 

He stopped in the middle of a kick, eyes wide as he noticed a new object on the floor—a small, glittering rock he’d probably picked up outside earlier.

"Look, nii-chan I found a treasure!" Rin yelled, holding it up like it was the most important thing in the world.

Sae grinned. “You’re always finding things, huh?”

Rin nodded, his face glowing with excitement. “I’m gonna keep it forever!” he declared, clutching the rock tightly. Sae’s smile softened, watching his brother run off with the rock, his small form bouncing as he took off. A part of Sae didn’t understand it, how someone could get so caught up in such simple things, but another part of him… didn’t mind. Not today. 

At least, for a while, Rin wasn’t jumping off anything or getting hurt. It was a normal, harmless moment, and it made Sae think—maybe it wasn’t all bad to have someone like Rin around.

It was one of those quiet afternoons when Sae should have been finishing his homework, but every time he tried to focus, something distracted him. First, it was the noise from the kitchen. Then, Rin’s voice, that familiar whine of “Nii-chan!” every few minutes, pulling his attention away from his books.

Sae sighed and rubbed his eyes. I’m never going to get this done. He glanced at the clock. Just a few more pages and he’d be finished, but it seemed like Rin had other plans.

“Nii-chan! Look what I found!” Rin’s high-pitched voice came from behind him.

Sae didn’t turn around. He kept his pen in hand, trying to focus on the math problem in front of him. Why does he always have to interrupt me?

The next thing he heard was a soft thud followed by a giggle. Sae gritted his teeth and turned, prepared to scold Rin for whatever it was this time. But instead of a toy or some random distraction, Rin was holding a glass of water, looking up at him with those big, innocent teal eyes.

“Rin, what are you doing with that?” Sae snapped before he could stop himself. 

His patience was already stretched thin, and his little brother had managed to push it further.

Rin blinked, his eyes widening as though he’d done something wrong. “I—I wanted to bring you water, Nii-chan! You’re working so hard, I thought you might be thirsty.” He stepped closer, but his hands trembled a little, the glass wobbling in his grasp.

Sae didn’t have the energy to smile at Rin’s attempt to be helpful. All he felt was frustration. “I don’t need water right now, Rin! Just... can you please leave me alone?” he said, his voice harsher than he meant it to be.

But Rin didn’t leave. 

Instead, he froze, staring at Sae as though trying to process the words. There was that look again— the one Sae hated to see. Rin’s face, soft and full of concern, had morphed into something more unsure. Timid. Like he was scared of doing something wrong. It bothered Sae, but he didn’t know why.

“Okay...” Rin mumbled, looking down at the glass. His grip loosened, and for a split second, the water tilted, splashing all over the desk and soaking into the papers Sae had just written on. 

The glass crashed to the floor, shattering in a million tiny pieces.

Sae’s breath caught in his throat. “Rin!” He jumped up from his chair, panic setting in as he saw the shards of glass scattered across the floor. “What the hell?!”

Rin stood there, completely frozen. His lip quivered, and then he let out a tiny sob, his face falling into a soft, apologetic frown. He bent down quickly, reaching for the glass pieces with his bare hands. “I—I’m sorry, Nii-chan. I’ll clean it up. I’ll fix it...” He winced, his hand getting dangerously close to the sharp edges.

“Stop!” Sae shouted, rushing forward to grab Rin’s arm before he could cut himself. “What are you doing?! You can’t just pick up broken glass with your hands! What’s wrong with you?”

Rin’s eyes welled with tears, his lower lip trembling as he looked up at Sae. “I’m sorry, Nii-chan! I didn’t mean to make a mess. I just... I wanted to help.” His voice was small, barely above a whisper, and his shoulders slumped as if he was expecting to be scolded, or worse, punished.

Sae felt a knot form in his stomach, but his anger didn’t ease. 

He clenched his fists. “You never think things through. This is why you’re always getting hurt! I told you, stop trying to be helpful all the time! You’re too clumsy—” He stopped himself, realizing how harsh his words sounded. He didn’t want to hurt Rin, but the frustration of the situation had gotten the better of him.

Rin’s eyes were wide now, his face pale and tear-streaked. “I’m sorry, Nii-chan,” he repeated softly, and this time, his voice cracked. He took a step back, his body trembling. “I didn’t mean to mess up... I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

His heart lurched, but he didn’t know what to say. He looked down at the mess on the floor, the shattered glass, the spilled water. The tension was so thick, it made his chest tight. Why do I always get mad at him? Sae thought, staring at Rin’s shaking form. He’s just a kid...

But before he could say anything else, he heard their mother’s voice from the other room.

“Rin! What did I tell you about being careful?” Their mother’s voice was sharp and full of frustration, and Sae flinched at the sound.

Rin winced, his face falling even further. Without another word, he scurried away, disappearing down the hall. Sae could hear the faint sounds of their mom scolding Rin as he went.

Sae stared at the broken glass on the floor, feeling a mix of anger, guilt, and something else he couldn’t quite place. He sat back down at his desk and tried to focus on his homework, but his mind kept drifting back to Rin, his little brother, who just wanted to help but always seemed to mess things up.

Mom is always mad at him, always yelling at him... Sae thought, his pencil tapping nervously against the desk. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.

He didn’t understand why Rin was so clumsy, why he couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. But at the same time, Sae felt... responsible. He felt like he was the one who had to fix everything for Rin, even when their mom just got mad and moved on.

But no matter how many times he told Rin to stop being reckless, he knew deep down that it didn’t change the fact that Rin was still just a little kid. And Sae was still the older brother, the one who was supposed to set an example.

But I can’t even stop him from getting hurt...

Sae sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, and tried to focus back on his homework.

But it didn’t feel the same anymore. Every word he wrote, every equation he solved, it all felt like nothing compared to the weight of the responsibility he carried for his brother.

And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear it.

Sae sat at his desk, staring at the pages in front of him, but his mind was still on Rin. 

The words he had shouted earlier—the way Rin had looked at him with those wide, scared eyes kept replaying over and over in his head. His little brother had just wanted to help. Sae knew that. But it didn’t make the situation any easier to handle.

He didn’t know how to make things right, not with his words. Apologizing out loud? That wasn’t something he was good at. He had never been good at that sort of thing, especially with Rin. 

But he hated the feeling of seeing his brother upset, knowing that part of it was his fault.

Sae sighed and pushed his homework aside, his mind still heavy with the weight of what had happened. He glanced out the window, the sun setting outside, and the idea came to him almost instantly. Rin likes popsicles...

Without another thought, Sae grabbed his jacket and slipped his shoes on. He didn’t even bother to tell his mom where he was going. He grabbed his allowance from his drawer and made his way to the corner store, hoping that something small like a popsicle would help make things better, even just a little bit.

It didn’t take long before he returned home, a brightly colored popsicle in hand. 

He crept quietly inside, trying not to draw attention to himself. Rin, of course, was still somewhere nearby, most likely still feeling down after the scolding.

Sae took a deep breath and, without hesitating, went to their shared room. He found his little brother sitting quietly on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, his face buried in his arms. Rin’s usual energy seemed drained, his shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of everything Sae had said to him earlier.

His little brother didn’t even look up when Sae walked in. He stayed there, still as a statue, the silence between them almost unbearable.

Sae didn’t say anything. He just held out the popsicle in front of Rin’s face, the cool, sugary treat wrapped in its plastic covering. "Rin," Sae said softly, his voice rough but steady. “I got you something."

Rin looked up at him, his eyes still red and puffy from the tears. 

At first, he didn’t seem to understand, but then he saw the popsicle, and his face softened, the tiniest glimmer of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I—I don’t deserve it…” Rin mumbled, his voice small and unsure. “I made a mess. I was clumsy…”

Sae shook his head, not wanting to hear that. He didn’t care about the mess. What mattered was that Rin was his brother—and Sae would always be there, even if he didn’t always know how to fix everything.

“It’s not about that,” Sae said quietly, sitting down beside Rin. “Just... eat it, okay?”

Rin hesitated for a moment, still unsure, but then reached out slowly and took the popsicle from Sae’s hand. His fingers brushed against Sae’s for a second, and Sae almost flinched, but he didn’t pull away. He just stayed there, watching his little brother take a small bite of the popsicle.

As Rin savored the cool treat, Sae found himself staring at the floor. He felt... relieved. 

Not because the popsicle would fix everything, but because it was something small he could do. It was the only way he knew how to show Rin he cared without saying the words.

Rin took another bite, his posture a little less tense. He looked up at Sae again, the tiniest smile curling his lips. “Thanks, Nii-chan…” he whispered.

Sae didn’t answer immediately. He just nodded, keeping his gaze low so Rin wouldn’t see the slight flush creeping up his neck. Maybe this is how I can make it up to him... without saying it.

And in the silence that followed, Sae felt the tension between them ease, if only a little. Rin wasn’t as upset anymore. And though Sae didn’t have the right words to fix everything, he knew that sometimes, showing care in his own way was enough. For now.

Chapter Text

Sae’s focus was entirely on the ball. 

His footwork was fluid, the rhythm of the game grounding him as he practiced on the empty street. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows on the pavement, but it was the perfect time to work on his control and his shots. He wasn’t thinking about anything else, just the ball, his legs, the movement. It had become second nature to him by now.

But of course, Rin was always doing his own thing.

At first, Sae hadn’t noticed when Rin wandered off, but by the time he realized it, it was too late. He heard it—Rin’s voice calling to him, sharp and almost frantic.

“Nii-chan!”

Sae’s heart skipped a beat. He turned just in time to see his younger brother running toward him, his nose dripping with blood. The crimson streaks were vivid against Rin’s pale face, his usual, carefree smile replaced by a look of discomfort.

He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He had long since accepted that this was just how Rin was. Reckless, careless, and always, always getting himself hurt.

“What did you do now?” Sae asked flatly, his voice indifferent, though he instinctively crouched down to meet Rin’s eyes.

Rin didn’t say anything. He just stared at his older brother, silent. His hand pressed against his nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood kept trickling out, staining his fingers.

Sae sighed, straightening up. “We should go home,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rin.

The two of them walked home in silence, the sound of Sae’s shoes tapping lightly against the pavement, the only noise between them. Rin kept his head down, embarrassed by the blood, his usual chatter absent for once. He wasn’t expecting Sae to scold him, not anymore. He knew how Sae was by now. He never said anything about his reckless behavior. Sae had stopped getting angry a long time ago. He just… accepted it.

When they reached the front door, Sae opened it without a word. As soon as they stepped inside, the smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen wafted through the house, but it was quickly replaced by the unmistakable sound of their mom’s voice.

“What happened to you?” she snapped as soon as she saw Rin.

Rin didn’t answer. He simply stood there, his hands still pressed to his nose, blood now staining his shirt. Sae knew what was coming. He could feel the heat of the scolding even before it came.

“You’re always like this, Rin! What did I tell you about being careful? You’re not some kind of monster—stop doing these dangerous things!” Mom’s voice was sharp, laced with frustration.

Sae stood quietly to the side, his arms crossed. His mom didn’t even look at him, too focused on Rin. He wasn’t surprised. He was used to it by now. He was used to taking the blame for everything that went wrong with Rin. He didn’t mind, though. It was easier that way. No one ever really paid attention to him unless there was a problem, and no one ever noticed the little things Sae did to try to help Rin, even in his own quiet way.

It didn’t bother him anymore. Not really.

But what did bother him was seeing Rin looking so small in the doorway, hunched over, as if he were trying to hide from his mom’s anger. Rin’s eyes were downcast, his expression guilt-ridden, even though he hadn’t said a word or even attempted to explain himself. Rin didn’t make excuses, not anymore.

Rin’s mother continued her scolding, too angry to notice the way Rin flinched at every word. Sae felt the familiar knot in his chest—he never liked seeing Rin like this, especially when it wasn’t his fault. But he never spoke up. It wasn’t his place.

It wasn’t until their mom stormed off into the kitchen that Sae noticed Rin standing in the hallway, just beyond the door, staring at the ground. 

He was hiding. Sae could tell. 

He didn’t need to look up to know Rin was standing there, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Sae didn’t have to think twice. He walked over and opened the door, stepping outside into the quiet, dimming evening. He didn’t say anything to Rin. There was no need for words, not now.

He knew his little brother didn’t expect a hug or some comforting words from him. But Rin always seemed to find a way to comfort him, even if he didn’t mean to.

And as Sae stood there, looking out at the dimming sky, he could feel Rin’s tiny hand slip into his, gripping his fingers tightly, as if seeking the one source of stability he could always count on.

Sae didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just squeezed Rin’s hand, silently acknowledging the way they both kept moving forward, despite everything.

“You’re dumb, you know that?” Sae muttered, though it wasn’t said with malice. He didn’t even care about Rin’s behavior anymore. He had stopped caring a long time ago. It was just who Rin was.

Rin didn’t respond. He just held Sae’s hand tighter.

The words didn’t matter.

Sae’s footsteps echoed through the house, and when he reached the kitchen, his mother was already waiting for him. 

She didn’t look at him right away, her eyes focused on the dishes she was cleaning, her movements quick and almost robotic, “Sae,” she finally said, her voice tight with frustration. “Come here.”

Hesitated for a moment, but then he stepped forward, standing a few paces away from her. He didn’t look up at her as he knew what was coming. The scolding, the disappointment. He could feel it creeping in, heavy and suffocating.

“Rin got hurt again,” his mom started, her voice edged with exhaustion. “And it’s always the same thing. You’re supposed to be the older brother. Why weren’t you watching him, huh? You should’ve been more careful. He’s only five. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

Sae swallowed hard, the words digging into him like sharp needles. 

He wanted to say something—anything—to defend himself, but he couldn’t. 

He wasn’t mad at Rin. He never was. But there was always this pressure on him to protect his brother, to make sure nothing went wrong. But it always did. And somehow, it always ended up being his fault.

“I’m busy with work, Sae. You should know this by now. You have to take care of Rin when I can’t. I can’t be everywhere. Why can’t you just watch him, huh? Why?” Her voice broke a little at the end, but the anger in her tone didn’t falter.

Sae’s chest tightened. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t a grown-up. He wasn’t some miracle worker. He was just a kid, like Rin, doing his best to deal with everything. But he couldn’t say any of that. Instead, he just nodded quietly, trying to hold his ground, even as the weight of his mother’s words bore down on him.

“Just…” His mom sighed, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “I’m sorry. But you have to understand. You need to do better. Rin can’t keep getting hurt.”

Sae nodded again, though it felt like something was breaking inside him. She didn’t really know what it was like. She didn’t know how hard it was for him to watch over Rin, to make sure he didn’t get hurt again. 

It was never enough. Nothing ever was.

Then, as if the tension of the moment was too much to bear, his mother exhaled slowly, her voice softer now, though still heavy with guilt.

“I’m sorry, Sae,” she said, her words tinged with a sadness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m just… tired. It’s hard on all of us. But you need to try harder, okay?”

Sae didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak. 

He felt small. So small under her gaze, under her tired expectations. When she turned back to the dishes, Sae knew the conversation was over.

He walked out of the kitchen, his heart heavy. 

There was no real comfort from his mom—only the weight of responsibility that seemed to keep piling on him. It wasn’t fair, but it was his reality now.

When Sae reached his room, the silence of the house enveloped him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the double-decker bed. Rin was asleep, curled up on the bottom bunk, his small body relaxed and at peace. He looked so fragile, so innocent in his sleep.

Sae’s throat tightened as he watched his brother, the sadness in his chest growing unbearable. He didn’t understand it. 

The tightness. 

The ache. 

The tears that were threatening to spill over but never quite did.

It wasn’t Rin’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just the way things were. Sae took a deep breath, trying to fight the tears, but it was no use. 

He couldn’t stop them. They spilled down his face in a silent rush, the emotion welling up and breaking free all at once.

He didn’t move. He just stood there, letting the tears fall, the heaviness in his chest pressing harder, deeper. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he had to carry this burden when he was just a kid. But as he looked at Rin, lying there so peacefully, he knew that somehow, he had to keep going. For Rin. For everything.

His little brother may have been reckless, but Sae knew that in the end, he was all Rin had, even if he didn’t always know how to be the big brother he was supposed to be.

And so, Sae cried quietly in the doorway, the weight of it all almost too much to bear, but he didn’t move. He just stayed there, letting the tears fall as his little brother slept soundly, unaware of the storm in his heart.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. 

Sae had woken up earlier than usual, the familiar weight of responsibility already pulling at his chest. The tension from last night still lingered in the air, but as he opened his eyes, it faded slightly in the warmth of the quiet morning.

Rin, as usual, was still asleep. 

He was curled up on the bottom bunk, his face peaceful in the way only children’s faces could be. Sae watched him for a moment, his gaze softening as he noticed how small his brother looked, how vulnerable. Despite everything—despite the endless scolding, the worry, the anger from his mother, and the weight of being the "big brother"—Sae couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of love for Rin.

It was just something that came naturally. He couldn’t explain it. 

He just knew that no matter how many times Rin got hurt, no matter how many times Sae felt like he was failing, there was never a moment where he didn’t want to protect him.

Sae sighed softly and pushed himself off his bed. He stretched, feeling the tightness in his muscles from yesterday’s long day of play and practice. He was seven now, and some days, the responsibility felt like too much. But then, there were moments like this—moments when he saw Rin, peaceful and safe, that reminded him why he couldn’t give up. Why he had to keep going.

Rin stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep, his tiny hand twitching in the air. Sae smiled softly, walking over and gently brushing a stray lock of hair off Rin's forehead. He didn’t mind the messiness, the constant noise, or even the worry. 

What mattered was Rin was here, and he was his little brother. 

And Sae loved him, even when it seemed like everything else was too much to bear.

As Sae turned to leave the room and start his morning routine, he couldn’t help but glance back one last time. The sight of Rin, still oblivious to the world, filled him with a quiet determination.

Rin may not understand everything yet, but Sae did. He understood the responsibility. He understood that, as the older brother, he would always have to step up. He would always have to be the one to protect, to guide, even when it felt like too much.

But that was what brothers did. Even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.

Sae couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t take care of Rin. 

And so, with a deep breath, he walked out of the room, the weight of responsibility settling back into his chest—but not in a way that crushed him. It just reminded him that no matter what happened, he would always be there for his little brother. Because, in the end, that was all that mattered.

And as he walked down the hallway, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. 

Sae was the big brother, and despite everything that came with it, he would always love and protect Rin. 

No matter what.

After he took a shower, Sae decided to go back to their room to wake Rin for their usual breakfast. Sae stepped into the quiet creak of the lower bed. He blinked his eyes open slowly, the light from the window casting soft lines across the room. 

It was earlier than usual, not school time yet, not even breakfast. Still, Rin was already awake.

The little lump of hair moved at the edge of the bed. Rin was crouched beside a small box, tugging at something with his small fingers, his back to Sae. 

“…What’re you doing?” Sae’s voice was soft.

And yet Rin startled, flinching hard before turning to him. “Nii-chan!” he called out too loud. His cheeks were red, eyes wide like he got caught sneaking candy.

Sae stood near the edge of the bottom bunk bed, peering down with a frown. “It’s not even eight…”

“I made something,” Rin said proudly. He held up a folded paper with crooked edges, tape barely holding it together. “It’s for you.”

Sae move forward half curious, half annoyed. Rin shoved the paper into his hand. On it, scribbled in lopsided hiragana, was,  “Nii-chan arigatou!!”

Below it was a drawing of two stick figures, one taller than the other. One had red scribbles for hair, the other green. Sae stared at it for a second, confused— then realized it was them. He was the red one. Rin was the green one.

Sae blinked, unsure how to react.

“You help me a lot,” Rin explained, scratching his cheek. “Even when I break stuff. Even when I… hurt.”

Sae didn’t answer at first. His chest felt strange again— but different than yesterday. This time, it was warm. It wasn't because someone scolded him. It wasn’t heavy. Just warm.

“…I told you not to touch tape without asking,” he muttered, looking away.

“I didn’t!” Rin lied instantly.

“You clearly did.”

A beat. Then, Rin beamed. “But you like it?”

Sae folded the paper carefully, tucking it into his desk drawer without a word. He didn’t say yes . He didn’t need to. Rin was already smiling as if he had shouted it.

It was almost eleven and the light peeked through the curtains. 

Sae was sitting on the top bunk with one sock half-on, swinging his legs lazily. His eyes flicked downward when he heard a soft yawn.

Rin blinked up from the lower bunk, hair tousled, face still sleepy, “Nii-chan…”

Sae grunted a reply, finishing the other sock. “Go shower.”

The day started normal. Breakfast. Sae doing some juggling with his football in the yard. Rin trailing after him. It wasn’t anything special—just another day they spent together. Until they went back inside. Sae was rummaging through the living room shelf for his workbook when he heard it—a shrill, broken shriek.

“GYAAAHHH!”

Sae turned sharply. “What now—?”

He spotted Rin standing on top of a chair, finger pointing, eyes wide in absolute terror.

“What?” Sae asked, raising an eyebrow. Rin couldn’t even speak, just pointed to the floor near the hallway.

Sae followed his line of sight, “Oh. That?”

A little cockroach crawled along the wooden floor, completely ignoring the chaos it had caused. Rin screamed again and climbed higher onto the armrest, “Kill it, kill it, Nii-chan!!”

Sae stared at him, “Seriously?”

But Rin’s entire body was shaking like he’d just seen a ghost. For someone who jumped off high places and got hurt on the daily, a tiny insect shouldn’t be this terrifying. And yet… Sae sighed, grabbing a tissue. One firm smack later, the crisis was over.

Rin didn’t move for a few seconds. Then slowly, he clambered down from the chair, knees wobbling, “You killed it?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t even big.”

Rin mumbled, “…Scary.”

Sae looked at him blankly for a second, then—without saying anything—went to the fridge, pulled out a pudding cup, and handed it to Rin.

Rin looked up. “Eh…?”

“You looked like you were gonna die.”

Rin smiled sheepishly and hugged the pudding close. “Thanks, Nii-chan.”

Sae didn’t reply, just turned away with a quiet click of his tongue, heading back to his workbook. But something lingered in his chest—something warm and familiar.

Even monsters can be scared of bugs, huh? And he guessed that was okay.

The house had settled back into a quiet lull after the cockroach incident. Rin, now securely camped on the couch with his pudding, was still throwing cautious glances toward the hallway like the bug might magically resurrect. His legs were tucked underneath him, one hand gripping the edge of the blanket Sae had tossed over earlier. Sae didn’t comment—he figured Rin needed to feel safe, even if it was from something as small as a cockroach.

Sae was sitting at the dining table now, pencil in hand, flipping through his math workbook. The sound of the pencil scratching against paper filled the room alongside the occasional tap of Rin’s spoon hitting the pudding cup. Sae tried to ignore it, focusing on a particularly annoying word problem. But then— tap . Tap . Scrape . It went on. And on.

He glanced up. “Do you have to be that loud when eating pudding?”

Rin looked up innocently. “I’m being careful. I don’t wanna spill.”

Sae narrowed his eyes slightly. That was a lie. Rin always made a mess, no matter how careful he claimed to be. But before he could retort, Rin slid off the couch, empty pudding cup in hand, and tiptoed toward the kitchen. 

That’s when he did it—he dropped the cup into the sink, turned around, and bumped the edge of a chair. A loud thunk echoed, and Rin hissed under his breath, holding his shin. Sae rolled his eyes and turned back to his homework. The silence didn’t last long.

“Nii-chan,” Rin said again, popping back beside him.

“What?”

“Do you think there are more cockroaches?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Rin paled instantly and clutched his sleeve. “What if they crawl on me when I’m asleep?”

Sae groaned and finally set his pencil down. He gave Rin a flat look. “You jump off monkey bars like it’s nothing, get nosebleeds every week, and now you’re scared of a bug that’s barely bigger than your thumb?”

Rin didn’t say anything to defend himself. Instead, he just muttered, “It moved so fast…”

There was a long pause before Sae sighed. He reached out and ruffled Rin’s hair roughly, messing up the already wild strands. “You’re so weird,” he said quietly, but not unkindly. Rin gave a small pout but didn’t move away.

Sae stood up and stretched, heading for the kitchen. He opened the cupboard where they kept their little stash of treats—leftover snacks from the last grocery trip. He found another pudding cup and held it up.

Rin’s eyes lit up instantly. “For me?”

“You survived a cockroach. You earned it.”

“Yaaay!” Rin bounced in place, grabbing the pudding and running back to the couch. “Nii-chan, you’re the best!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sae muttered, but a small smile tugged at his lips.

They spent the rest of the afternoon together in that quiet way only siblings could—Rin alternating between shadowing Sae and watching his cartoons, and Sae half-focused on his homework while making sure Rin didn’t climb on furniture again. The cockroach had been long flushed down the toilet, but the story of its existence lived on in Rin’s exaggerated reenactments every time he remembered it.

Later that evening, as the sky turned orange and the house grew dim without their parents home yet, Sae found himself watching Rin nap with an empty pudding cup still cradled in his hands. His mouth hung slightly open, soft breaths rising and falling. His bangs had fallen over his eyes again.

Sae reached out and brushed them back without waking him. 

He didn’t really understand why something so simple felt heavy sometimes. 

All he knew was, even if Rin would jump off rooftops or cry over insects, even if he messed everything up, even if he made Sae’s days harder—he wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Because he remembered the look on Rin’s face earlier—scared, then grateful.

And Sae knew, somehow, that this was what being a big brother meant. Protecting Rin even from the smallest things, even when no one else saw.

Chapter Text

It was rare for their parents to have a day off at the same time, let alone one where neither of them brought work home or spent half the day on the phone. 

That morning, their father had announced—rather flatly—that they would all go to the zoo. Sae hadn’t reacted much, but Rin had gasped so loudly he nearly choked on his breakfast, “Zoo? Really? With the animals?” Rin’s eyes sparkled as he clutched his spoon like it was the most exciting news he’d ever heard.

“Of course animals, what else would it be?” their mother replied, clearly already annoyed even before they’d left the house.

Their father simply stood, coat in hand, and told them to get ready within fifteen minutes or they’d be left behind.

The car ride was a mess of Rin bouncing in his seat, pointing out random things from the window (“Is that a lion store?” “No, that’s a laundromat, Rin.”), and their mother threatening to cancel the whole trip if he didn’t calm down. Sae sat beside him, arms crossed and looking out the window, but secretly, he didn’t mind this version of Rin—loud, happy, and a little too excited. At least he wasn’t crying over a scraped knee or clinging to Sae’s sleeve like he did after nightmares.

The zoo was big, bigger than Sae had remembered from a school trip the year before. The smell of animal feed, trees, and sweet snacks drifted through the entrance as crowds of families swarmed in. Their parents had a half-hearted plan to stick together, but soon enough, Rin was dragging Sae in all directions, pulling him by the hand toward cages and enclosures.

“Nii-chan, look! Monkeys! They’re picking their nose!”

Sae blinked at the enclosure. “...Yeah. That’s gross.”

Rin giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world. Then he ran to the next, and the next—lions that barely moved, penguins waddling like little old men, giraffes with impossible necks. Every few minutes, their mother would yell for them to stay close, and their father would grumble that the map made no sense. But the brothers didn’t really listen. The day belonged to them.

It wasn’t until later, in the shaded part of the zoo where nocturnal animals were kept, that Rin stopped running.

The exhibit was quiet, dimly lit, and decorated like a forest at dusk. There were soft sounds of owls hooting, leaves rustling, and a recorded stream flowing somewhere in the background. Sae was about to tell Rin to keep moving—he hated how dark it was in there—when he realized his little brother hadn’t moved.

Rin stood at one of the enclosures, small hands pressed against the glass, eyes wide. Inside, an owl perched on a branch, head cocked slightly, as though watching Rin back. Its feathers were a mix of gray and soft brown, its big yellow eyes unblinking. It didn’t move much. It didn’t need to.

Sae approached slowly. “What? You’re not scared of this one?”

Rin shook his head slowly, whispering, “It’s cool…”

Sae glanced at the bird. “It’s not doing anything.”

“But it’s so still,” Rin said, eyes still fixed on the owl. “Like it’s waiting for something. But it’s not scared. Even if there’s a bigger bird somewhere, it’d still fight, right? Owls hunt at night. They’re not scared of the dark.”

There it was again—one of those strange things Rin said sometimes. That quiet admiration for things others would overlook. For things that fought even when no one was watching.

Sae didn’t know how to respond, so he said, “It just eats mice.”

“That’s fine. I like it,” Rin said with finality.

They stayed there for a few minutes longer, quiet for once. The owl didn’t move, but Sae caught the way Rin smiled. It wasn’t loud or bright, but soft—something that looked like a secret kept close to the heart.

Later, when they stopped by the gift shop, Rin didn’t ask for candy or a toy dinosaur. He reached up toward a small keychain on a spinning rack—an owl plush with big eyes and tiny wings. It barely fit in his hand.

“Nii-chan,” Rin said, holding it up.

Sae sighed and fished out the coins from his tiny wallet, the one with a blue star sticker on the side. “You’re paying me back.”

“Nope,” Rin said cheekily, already hugging the owl to his chest.

Their parents didn’t even notice.

The afternoon sun had turned harsh by the time they passed the snack stalls again. 

The air smelled thick of grilled corn, sweet dango, and soft-serve ice cream melting too fast under the heat. Rin had been glued to Sae’s side most of the day, but now he was walking with their father, pestering him for juice while their mother sat on a bench to rest her feet.

Sae trailed slightly behind the group, half-listening and half kicking a small rock along the pavement. 

He was tired too—his legs ached from walking, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. They’d already seen the animals Rin had been most excited for. It was probably time to go home soon. Sae could already imagine the quiet of their room, the cool pillow under his neck, the taste of cold barley tea.

He kicked the rock a little too hard and it bounced off the pavement toward the bushes.

“Wait—” he muttered, jogging after it with a slight frown. Just a few steps.

When he turned back—

Rin was gone.

Sae blinked. Their dad was still walking, talking to someone. Their mom was looking the other way, distracted by a flock of kids running past.

But Rin—his tiny form, usually just below Sae’s eye level—was nowhere. Sae looked to the right. Then the left. His pulse started to rise, “…Rin?” he called out, not too loud, just enough to test the air.

No answer.

He walked faster now, eyes scanning every passing group of tourists, checking for that messy head of dark green hair, the too-bright orange shirt Rin insisted on wearing today.

But nothing.

Then the dread hit. A heavy, unfamiliar kind. The kind that sat in his throat and squeezed.

He broke into a jog. “Rin—?!” His voice cracked slightly as he turned a corner and found only strangers. His heartbeat started to echo in his ears. There were too many people. Too many faces.

He rushed back to the bench.

“Mom—! Rin’s not here!”

She looked up from her phone, her face blank for a second, then twisted in irritation. “What do you mean?”

“I—I looked away for just a second!” Sae’s voice shook, and his hands were clenched. “He was here. I swear he was just here.”

Her expression shifted instantly. “What—what do you mean he’s not here?! Where is he?!”

Their father, now alert, stepped between them, raising a hand. “He can’t have gone far. I’ll go check that side of the path. Sae, take your mother and stay right here—”

“I’m going too,” Sae interrupted, already backing away.

“Sae!”

But he was gone before she could finish, running faster than he ever had without a football under his feet.

His legs hurt. His chest burned. He called Rin’s name over and over, passing crying babies, stroller carts, couples on benches, loudspeaker announcements that didn’t help. Nothing.

The zoo was suddenly too big. The paths twisted like a maze, and Sae hated it. He hated the feeling crawling in his chest. Was Rin scared? Crying? What if someone took him? What if he was lost forever?

His breath caught. His throat was dry. He had never felt like this before—not even when he was scolded, or alone. This was worse.

And then—

A voice.

“Nii-chan!!”

He skidded to a halt, heart slamming.

There. Just a few meters away, near a koi pond display, Rin was standing on tiptoe against the railing, eyes wide and watery, gripping his little owl plush in both hands.

Sae ran.

Rin saw him and burst into tears the moment he was close. “I—I was looking at the fish and then you were gone and then I didn’t know where—!”

“Idiot!” Sae snapped, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into a tight, one-armed hug before he could stop himself. “Don’t go running off!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Rin sniffled into his shirt. “I thought you were right behind me…”

Sae’s arms shook a little, and he clenched his teeth to keep from showing it. He pulled back and looked at Rin—really looked at him. He had a small scrape on his knee from who-knows-what, his face red from crying and heat, but he was here. He was safe.

Sae exhaled. The air left his lungs like he’d been holding it forever.

They walked back slowly. Their mother was yelling before they even reached the bench, but her voice faded to the background. Their father took over calming her, guiding them toward the exit with firm hands and a tired expression.

Sae didn’t speak the whole way home, even when Rin curled up in the seat beside him, worn out and still holding Sae’s shirt like an anchor. He didn’t speak because he wasn’t sure what to say—not to Rin, not to himself.

But when they reached their street, and Rin was nearly asleep against his side, Sae looked down and whispered, so quiet no one else could hear, “Don’t scare me like that again, Rin.”

And just for a second, he tightened his grip around his brother’s shoulder.

That evening, as the golden hour faded into dusk, Sae stood in front of his suitcase with arms crossed, watching their mother zip up the last corner. Rin was in the other room, humming to himself as he packed his owl plush and a few of his favorite crayons, completely unaware of what this sudden trip meant to his brother.

“We’ll be back in a few days,” their mother said, not even looking at Sae. “Just until next week. Your school has a holiday window, and Rin’s not in school yet, so it’s perfect.”

Perfect. Right.

Sae didn’t say anything. He only nodded stiffly, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch downward. 

It didn’t even feel like a conversation— just another adult announcement he was expected to accept. No questions, no complaints.

Their father added, “Behave. And don’t cause trouble for your grandparents. This is important.”

They didn’t ask how Sae felt about it. They didn’t mention the zoo trip. And that—more than anything—burned quietly in his chest. That whole day had been for this , hadn’t it? One last bright thing before being shoved into another place that wasn’t home. 

They smiled more than usual this morning. Played along. Even bought Rin a toy and let him eat dango past lunch. All of it was to soften this.

Sae should’ve known.

He didn’t say goodbye when they left. He didn’t care to.

The train ride to Osaka was long, even if the scenery passed quickly outside the windows. Rin kept pressing his face to the glass, exclaiming over every river and field they passed. Sae sat beside him in silence, chin in his hand, scowling at the vague reflection of himself.

They arrived after dark.

The car that picked them up was black and long, too polished to be normal. Sae didn’t recognize the driver, who barely spoke a word. Rin fell asleep during the drive, head slumped onto Sae’s shoulder, owl plush crushed in his lap.

When the gates of the house opened, even Sae sat up straight.

The estate was massive. Too clean. Too old. The walls were high, the fencing layered in dark iron and sharp points that looked more like fortification than decoration. The stone paths gleamed under the lights like they’d been polished for guests, but there were no signs of welcome—just silence and structure. 

The front entrance alone was bigger than their whole living room.

A man in a dark yukata opened the door for them without a word. He nodded once and bowed. Sae nodded back stiffly. Inside, everything smelled like incense and wood polish. Shadows sat in the corners of the room, even with the lights on.

Rin stirred and yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Are we at a hotel?”

“No,” Sae muttered, grabbing both their bags. “This is grandpa’s.”

Rin’s eyes widened. “Grandpa has a castle?”

Sae didn’t respond.

They were shown to a guest room—neatly arranged futons on the floor, old sliding paper doors, shelves of books and jars that Rin stared at like they were treasure. But all Sae could think about was how much he didn’t want to be here. How much he hated how quiet it was. How much he hated that they were left again.

He sat on his futon, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his knuckles, watching Rin wander the room in sleepy wonder. All day he’d been planning to show Rin a simple trick—how to trap the ball between your ankles and lift it clean in the air. Just the basics. Rin had finally said he wanted to try. Sae had smiled—really smiled, just for a second when he heard that.

But now?

That would have to wait.

Sae clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t fair. None of it ever was. If they were going to be left alone, then just leave them alone . Not hand them off to strangers or relatives wrapped in politeness and rules. They didn’t need a big house or perfect manners. 

He just needed a yard and a ball. And Rin. That was enough.

“Nii-chan,” Rin said quietly, crawling onto his own futon with his plush in hand. “Do you think we can see animals here too?”

Sae snorted. “No. Don’t even think about going outside without me.”

Rin giggled. “I won’t. But if I see an owl, I’ll tell you first.”

Sae turned his face away. “Whatever.”

He lay down with a sharp exhale, back to Rin, staring at the wooden ceiling that smelled like a hundred years ago. There were so many rooms in this place, so many corners and echoes, and still, he felt smaller than ever.

The soft rustle of blankets told him Rin had curled up beside him, just a little closer than usual.

Sae didn’t push him away.

The room had gone mostly quiet except for the chirping of late summer insects outside the paper windows and the groan of old wooden beams cooling in the night. The air smelled different here, less like city concrete, more like tatami and old incense. Sae lay on his futon, facing the wall, listening to the slow, uneven breathing coming from the futon beside his.

He thought Rin was asleep already.

Then, very softly, Rin whispered, “…Nii-chan.”

Sae kept his eyes open. “What.”

A pause. Then Rin’s voice wavered just enough to give him away, “Why did Mom and Dad leave?”

Sae exhaled. He didn’t move. His gaze stayed fixed on the wall so Rin couldn’t see his expression. He’d known this question was coming. Rin was too dumb to ask it earlier, when their parents were waving from the door like everything was fine. He always asked when it was too quiet to pretend.

“They have work,” Sae finally muttered.

He heard rustling as Rin turned on his side to face him. “But why can’t we go with them?”

“Because it’s work. Grown-up stuff.”

“Then why can’t they stay with us?”

Sae shut his eyes for a second. The words tasted bitter in his mouth….. “Because they don’t want to.”

Silence. The kind that rang in his ears. Rin didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Sae almost regretted it. He turned slightly, enough to see Rin in the dim light. His brother was hugging that owl plush tight to his chest, eyes shiny in the shadows. His bottom lip trembled once before he bit down on it.

“But I want them to stay,” Rin mumbled.

Sae swallowed. He didn’t know how to fix that. He didn’t know the words.

Rin sniffled, and Sae could feel the heat rise in his own chest. The same way it always did when he couldn’t protect him from something. He sat up a little and reached over, grabbing a handful of Rin’s blanket and tugging it higher around him.

“Stop crying.” His voice came out rougher than he meant. “It’s annoying.”

Rin sniffled again but didn’t answer. Sae pressed the blanket against Rin’s shoulder, hand lingering there.

“They’ll come back,” Sae said more quietly. “They always do. Till then, you just—have to stay here. With me.”

Rin blinked, tears sliding down his nose, but he nodded a tiny bit.

“With Nii-chan…”

“Yeah.”

Sae let go of the blanket and lay back down, turning away again. He shut his eyes tight, willing the stinging behind them to stop.

Rin’s voice wavered once more in the dark.

“Nii-chan… you’ll stay with me, right?”

Sae didn’t open his eyes.

“Always,” he said, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t have to see Rin’s face to know he was smiling, even if it was a sad, small one.

They fell quiet after that. The old house creaked and sighed around them. Outside, the wind rustled trees Sae couldn’t name.

And in that too-big room, with too many doors and too much silence, Sae kept listening to Rin’s breathing. Counting it in his head.

As long as he could hear it, he could sleep.

Morning came with soft light slanting through the shōji doors and the low, distant sounds of someone sweeping the engawa outside. Sae woke first, still tired from yesterday’s long day and the uneasy sleep in an unfamiliar place.

Rin was a little lump under the blanket beside him, hair sticking up in every direction. 

His owl plush was tucked under his chin, and Sae had to nudge his shoulder twice before Rin even cracked an eye open.

“Wake up,” Sae muttered.

Rin just groaned and burrowed deeper into the futon.

It wasn’t until a knock sounded on the door that Rin shot up, blinking. A man in a dark yukata slid the door open. “Kuro-sama will see you in the main room.”

Sae nodded stiffly, then turned to Rin. “Come on. Put your socks on.”

Rin rubbed his eyes, looking confused. “Who’s Kuro-sama?”

Sae didn’t answer until they were following the silent attendant down the wide hallway. The tatami was cool under their feet, and every corner of the house smelled old and clean in a way that made Sae feel like he needed to hold his breath.

They reached a tall set of sliding doors. The attendant bowed and pushed them open.

Inside, seated formally at a low lacquered table, was their grandfather.

Sae knew him—he had memories of this room, of that deep voice and big, weathered hands. But Rin had been so little back then he probably never even understood who this man was.

Their grandfather looked up, gaze steady under thick eyebrows and the familiar long under lashes around his eyes. His face was carved with lines and shadows, like a stone statue that had decided to get up and live among people. Sae felt Rin’s small hand sneak around his wrist.

The old man’s expression didn’t change as he studied them. Then, slowly, the deep crease between his brows softened just a fraction.

“You’ve both grown,” he rumbled, voice low and scratchy but not unkind. His eyes dropped to Rin. “This one was so small he fit in my palm.”

Rin blinked, wide-eyed. “H…hello…”

For a long second, no one moved. Then their grandfather leaned forward, huge hand reaching—

Before Sae could warn him, those fingers landed on Rin’s cheek and pinched.

“Such a little sprout,” he said, and though his voice still sounded like gravel, there was something undeniably warm in it. “You’re bigger than your mother was at your age.”

Rin squeaked, little arms flailing as his cheek got pulled gently side to side.

Sae didn’t even flinch. He’d already learned from past experience to take one discreet step back, just out of reach.

When Rin was finally released, his face was red and indignant, owl plush clutched like a shield. Their grandfather turned his gaze to Sae next, and Sae felt that old nervousness flicker in his stomach.

But instead of reaching for his face, the old man only nodded once—approval, maybe, or something close to it.

“You’re looking after your brother?”

“…Yes.” Sae’s voice was steady, though he felt Rin still hiding half behind him.

“Good.”

The room went quiet again, filled only by the distant calls of crows somewhere in the garden. Despite how imposing he was, there was something about their grandfather that felt…solid. Like nothing could shake him. Sae didn’t know if it made him more comfortable or more aware of how small he still was.

After a moment, their grandfather gestured to the table. “You’ll have breakfast here. Then you may go out in the garden, if you stay where the attendants can see you.”

Rin tugged his sleeve, voice soft and a little hoarse. “Nii-chan…is Grandpa scary?”

Sae sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “No. He just looks scary.”

Rin considered this, then crept out from behind him. Their grandfather watched with one raised brow, as if amused by the caution, then reached out and—too late for Rin to dodge—ruffled his hair with that same giant hand.

Sae made a point of shifting another step away. He wasn’t getting pulled into that.

They settled around the low table for breakfast. An attendant brought out trays with small dishes: grilled fish, rice, miso soup, pickles, and rolled omelet. It was the kind of careful, traditional meal their mother rarely had time to make at home.

Rin sat beside Sae with his legs tucked awkwardly under him, looking like he might slide sideways onto the tatami at any moment. He kept shooting glances at the little dishes like they were treasure boxes he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open.

Their grandfather ate slowly, methodically. When he wasn’t chewing, his dark eyes watched them both with heavy, weighing calm.

“So,” he rumbled, finally breaking the silence. “You’re in early school now.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but Sae swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“Grades?”

Sae picked at his rice. “…Good.”

“Hn.” Their grandfather didn’t smile, but the deep lines around his mouth eased a little. “And football?”

Sae’s eyes flicked up, surprised.

Grandpa snorted softly, catching it. “Your father wrote about it. Says you’re good.”

Sae blinked once, ears going a little red. He cleared his throat and muttered, “I try.”

“Keep trying,” Grandpa said simply, pouring himself tea with a slow hand. “It suits you.”

Rin watched all this with big eyes, chopsticks frozen over his egg. When Grandpa finally turned that gaze on him, Rin jumped and scrambled to bow from the floor, nearly tipping over.

“Thank you for the food!!” he squeaked.

Grandpa’s mouth twitched in the closest thing Sae had ever seen to a real smile. He reached over and dropped one giant hand on Rin’s head, ruffling it with the gentleness of a grizzly bear. Rin squeaked again but didn’t run.

That moment was broken by the sliding door creaking open.

“Father,” a calm voice said from the hall.

Their grandfather didn’t even turn. “Hatori. Come eat with us.”

A man stepped inside with quiet steps. He looked…familiar. Familiar in a way that made Sae blink and squint.

His hair was reddish brown—darker than Sae’s own, but the same spiked texture that fell a bit wild over his forehead. His eyes were narrower than Rin’s, but the lashes underneath were the same telltale shape both brothers shared. Except Hatori’s eyes were brown, and when he smiled, it was small, smooth, and didn’t quite reach them.

“Excuse me for intruding,” he said with serene politeness. He folded onto the tatami with perfect posture.

Rin stared at him, wide-eyed. Then he tugged Sae’s sleeve hard, whispering way too loud:

“Nii-chan! He looks like you!”

Sae scowled and shook him off, ears burning. “Shut up.”

Hatori watched them with that small, unfazed smile. He picked up his chopsticks delicately.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you two,” he said mildly, voice low and even. “Last time you were both smaller than my arm.”

Rin blinked, mouth opening in a silent little “oh.”

Sae looked at him warily. He remembered Hatori from old visits. He remembered the way his mother’s voice always turned careful around him on the phone. Hatori never raised his voice. Never moved fast. But his smile always seemed to know something you didn’t.

Their grandfather grunted approvingly. “They’re good boys.”

“Hmm,” Hatori agreed, looking at Sae, then Rin. “They do look well.”

Rin was busy stuffing rolled omelet in his mouth now, happily oblivious.

Sae swallowed and forced himself to answer. “We’re fine.”

“Good,” Hatori said again. He turned to Rin with that same unsettlingly calm smile. “You’re the youngest, aren’t you?”

Rin nodded furiously, mouth full. “Mmm-hm!”

Hatori’s gaze didn’t flicker. “That must be a lot of trouble for your big brother.”

Sae bristled a little. He felt Rin shrink beside him at that, shrinking like he’d done in front of Mom’s lectures before. Sae’s jaw tensed.

But Grandpa interrupted before Sae could speak.

“Eat,” the old man said firmly. “Hatori, stop making them nervous.”

Hatori’s smile didn’t fade, but he obediently turned back to his bowl. “As you say.”

Sae let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He glanced at Rin. The younger boy had gone quiet, chewing slower, his eyes on his plate. Sae reached over, annoyed, and nudged him with two fingers.

“Eat.”

Rin jumped a little but then hurried to obey, stuffing rice into his mouth.

Their grandfather watched them both with that heavy, evaluating calm that somehow felt safer than their parents’ rushed goodbyes. Sae didn’t relax, exactly—but he ate, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat.

At least here, no one pretended they didn’t notice everything.

After breakfast, an attendant guided them to the garden. 

It was huge—wider than their entire neighborhood park, but enclosed on all sides by high walls and old pine trees pruned into careful shapes. The gravel paths crunched under their feet, and cicadas buzzed somewhere overhead, loud and constant.

But what stopped both boys cold was the sight in the center of the grass.

A brand-new, shining white football sat waiting. Beside it, two small metal goalposts had been set up, gleaming like they’d been put together that morning.

Rin gasped so hard he choked on his own spit. “Nii-chan!! Look!!”

Sae froze, staring. He didn’t need to ask who bought it.

He turned, finding an attendant watching them silently from the engawa. The man nodded once. “Kuro-sama ordered them set up for you.”

Their grandfather.

Sae’s chest felt weirdly tight for a second.

But he wasn’t about to question it.

He gave Rin a small shove toward the ball. “Go.”

Rin cheered, sprinting in his clumsy way, and immediately tripped over his own feet in the grass, landing on all fours. He blinked at the grass, then scrambled up with stubborn determination.

Sae huffed a laugh he didn’t even mean to let out.

They played for a long time.

At first Sae just dribbled slow, showing Rin how to keep the ball close, using the inside of his foot. Rin tried to copy him, tongue sticking out in concentration. He fell over half the time, arms windmilling wildly, but he always got up.

“Not like that,” Sae grumbled, grabbing Rin by the shoulder and repositioning him. “Foot angled. Watch.”

Rin watched with wide eyes, copying as best he could, muttering “angled… angled…” under his breath.

They practiced little passes, then Sae showed him how to stop the ball with the sole of his foot. Rin cheered every time he managed it.

And when Rin scored his first clumsy goal against Sae’s half-hearted defense, he threw his arms up and shouted so loud Sae was sure the whole house heard. Sae rolled his eyes. “Shut up. It wasn’t even that good.”

Rin stuck out his tongue but beamed anyway.

They kept at it until they were both sweaty and grass-stained, breathing hard, hair plastered to their foreheads. Sae’s knees itched from where the grass rubbed raw. But he didn’t call it quits until Rin finally slumped onto the ground, groaning dramatically.

“I’m tired,” Rin mumbled. “I’m gonna die.”

Sae snorted, standing over him. “No, you’re not.”

“Can I… go toilet?”

“Yeah,” Sae said, wiping sweat from his temple. He glanced at the house. “It’s right there. Don’t get lost.”

Rin sat up, making an offended face. “I’m not a baby, Nii-chan.”

Sae didn’t answer. He just watched as Rin trudged off toward the hall, still grumbling.

When the door slid shut behind Rin, Sae finally sat down hard in the grass, resting his elbows on his knees.

He looked around the empty garden. The cicadas kept screaming in the trees. The ball sat half-deflated where they’d left it, little scuffs already on its perfect white. The goals gleamed in the sun.

It had actually been… fun.

Sae let himself smile a little, tilting his head back to feel the breeze on his face.

He didn’t hear the quiet steps until they were close.

“What are you thinking, Sae?”

He turned sharply.

Hatori was there, moving like he always did—slow but silent, like he could disappear if you blinked. He didn’t stand, either. He just lowered himself gracefully onto the grass beside Sae, folding his legs with practiced ease.

Sae scowled and turned away. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Hatori’s voice was calm. Too calm. Always. “That’s rare. You seem like the type who thinks too much.”

Sae didn’t answer. He picked at a blade of grass, ripping it in half.

Hatori hummed thoughtfully, watching the empty goals and the scuffed ball.

“Looks like you had fun.”

“…Tch.”

Hatori’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something smaller.

“You’re good with him.”

Sae flinched slightly at that. He didn’t show it, but he snapped the grass in his fingers harder.

“He’s a lot of work,” Sae muttered.

“Most little brothers are,” Hatori replied easily. “It’s how you know they’re still yours to take care of.”

Sae didn’t like that answer. It felt too much like agreeing with his mother.

But he didn’t argue.

They sat there in the quiet for a while, only the wind rustling the pines and the buzz of insects filling the space. Hatori didn’t say anything else for a bit. He just watched the garden like he was studying something complicated.

Finally, his voice dropped low.

“Your parents… they’re lucky, you know. That you’re the eldest.”

Sae felt his shoulders tense. He didn’t know what to do with that.

Hatori glanced at him, eyes narrow but not unfriendly. The smile on his face was small. Dangerous. Sad.

“Don’t waste that, Sae.”

Sae glared at the grass. His fingers hurt from picking at it.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Hatori didn’t speak for a moment after his first comment about Sae being the eldest. He just sat there, watching the garden. His fingers brushed over the grass slowly, the cicada buzz filling the space between them.

Sae sat stiffly, arms on his knees, scowling at nothing. He felt the words Hatori had just said rolling around in his chest like stones. He didn’t want them there.

Finally, Hatori exhaled slowly.

“You know,” he said in that calm, low voice of his, “I understand you more than you think.”

Sae didn’t look at him, but he didn’t move away either.

Hatori’s fingers plucked a blade of grass and twisted it absently, “Karin.. Your mother, she wasn’t easy to deal with. Even when she was your age. She was loud. Emotional. Always shouting. Always crying.”

Sae’s eyes flicked over, suspicious but listening.

Hatori gave a humorless huff of a laugh. “She used to fight with everyone. Teachers. Our parents. Me. Her friends. Even strangers on the street sometimes.”

He snorted despite himself, imagining it.

Hatori didn’t smile. He just turned the grass in his fingers, his eyes somewhere far away.

“Her emotions were her biggest weapon,” he said softly. “And her biggest weakness. She could make anyone do what she wanted… or push them so far away they wouldn’t come back.”

Sae frowned.

“She isn’t a bad person, Sae,” Hatori continued. His voice was strangely gentle, which made Sae uncomfortable. “She just… never learned how to stop feeling too much. Even now.” He finally glanced at Sae, brown eyes calm but sharp. “That’s what you see when she gets mad at you. When she yells about Rin. She’s scared. That’s all it is. But she doesn’t know how to say it any other way.”

Sae shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to do with that.

Hatori watched him for a moment, then sighed.

“Don’t take it too much to heart,” he said, voice dropping lower. “She tries. Even when it’s messy.”

Sae didn’t answer. He didn’t want to. But something in his chest ached a little less sharply. He picked at the grass by his shoe. “She’s still annoying.”

Hatori’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “That won’t change. It never did with me.”

Sae huffed quietly through his nose. He wasn’t sure if he felt better, exactly. But the anger felt duller. He kept his eyes on the grass, chewing on those words.

Then the sliding door crashed open so hard it rattled, making both of them jump.

“Nii-chan!! I didn’t get lost!!”

Rin stood in the doorway beaming, owl plush clutched triumphantly in his fist.

Sae blinked, then let out a sharp exhale. He stood up fast, brushing grass off his shorts like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

“Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. “Come on.”

Hatori stayed seated, watching them both. That small, unreadable, just-barely-there smile settled on his face again.

As Rin came charging across the grass to him, Sae turned away before he could see anything else on Hatori’s face.

He didn’t want to think about Mom. Or Dad. Or responsibilities.

Just the ball at his feet.

And Rin’s stupid determined smile.

Their bags were packed by the time the sun was leaning west. The old house seemed quieter than before, shadows growing long across the polished floors.

Sae stood by the door, double-checking that Rin hadn’t forgotten his owl plush. 

“Hurry up,” Sae snapped when Rin stopped to wave at an attendant.

“I’m coming, Nii-chan!” Rin ran back, almost tripping over the threshold, clutching the owl to his chest like it was gold.

Their grandfather was waiting at the engawa. He sat cross-legged, back impossibly straight for such an old man, one hand resting on his knee. When they bowed, he didn’t stand. He just studied them with those heavy, weighing eyes that missed nothing.

“Come here,” he rumbled finally.

Rin scrambled over without hesitation, beaming. Sae followed more slowly, arms stiff at his sides.

Their grandfather’s huge hands landed on both of their shoulders, pulling them closer. His grip was firm, careful—but it had weight.

“You’ll come back,” he said simply. “You’ll remember this old man. Don’t forget.”

Rin made a soft little sound, face pressing into Grandpa’s sleeve. Sae went stiff for a moment, but then relaxed just enough to lean forward too. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away. Grandpa squeezed once, like anchoring them in place. Then he let go, and Sae felt the absence of that weight keenly.

He watched as Grandpa’s eyes softened, only slightly, but enough that Sae caught it.

“Be good,” Grandpa added, voice low. “To each other.”

Sae nodded, even as Rin chirped, “Okay!!”

Behind them, Hatori leaned against the post, arms folded neatly in his sleeves. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth in that small, knowing curve.

When their mother appeared, bustling in from the gate where the car waited, she was huffing that she was late. Sae turned to look at her, noting the little frown line between her brows even as she reached for Rin’s shoulder.

Hatori didn’t move for a second. Then he stepped away from the post, close enough to lay one calm, practiced hand on her head.

“Don’t frown so much, Karin,” he said in that low, smooth voice.

She froze, eyes going wide in annoyance, but she didn’t bat his hand away. Just scowled at the ground.

“Stop it,” she grumbled, but there was no real heat behind it.

Sae blinked. The sight was…weirdly familiar. Too familiar.

He remembered how he always ruffled Rin’s hair without thinking. Shoved him when he was too close, held him when he fell.

Hatori’s hand stayed there for only a second longer before he let go, returning to that watchful, dangerous calm.

“Take care,” he said, and Karin mumbled something back too soft for Sae to hear.

Sae watched all of it, quiet.

When they turned to leave, Grandpa gave one last, deep, rumbling command.

“Come back. Don’t make me come drag you two here.”

Rin giggled, waving both arms. “Bye bye Grandpa!! Bye bye Hatori-san!!”

Sae didn’t wave, but he dipped his head low.

“Thank you.”

He felt Grandpa’s eyes on his back all the way to the gate. When they got in the car, Sae pressed his face to the window, watching the huge walls recede behind them.

He didn’t say anything, but in the quiet, he let himself think it. He’d bring Rin back.

Chapter Text

The summer sun clung stubbornly to the sky, casting long shadows over the field where the team gathered for practice. Sweat stuck to the back of Sae’s neck as he juggled the ball on one foot— tap, tap, tap— before catching it with a sharp stop under his sole.

Behind him, scattered around the cones, were the other kids. 

Most were older than him. But no one said anything when Sae took lead in warmups anymore. He was already past needing to prove himself.

But today, all eyes weren’t on him.

They were on the smaller figure standing stiffly near the bench, with hair still a little too neat and shoes obviously new.

Rin.

Coach clapped his hands once. “Alright, before we begin—we’ve got a new regular joining us today. Youngest in the group.”

Sae didn’t turn. He just listened.

The coach looked to the side. “Itoshi Rin. Step up.”

There was a quiet shuffling sound, then a softer voice. “Y-Yes!”

Rin ran out, his legs a little too fast for his body. His expression was serious, that same weird determination in his eyes—too sharp for someone his age. He bowed deeply to the team. “I’ll do my best!”

The older kids whispered among themselves.

“That’s his brother, right?”
“Looks just like him.”
“Man, he’s tiny.”

Coach waved a hand. “Save the talk. Let him prove himself on the field.”

Rin jogged over to where the cones were set. His hands were clenched tight by his sides, but his eyes never wavered from the ball. Sae glanced sideways at him now, then turned forward again.

Rin didn’t need him. Not here. Not like before.

It was strange.

Not bad.

Just… strange.

By the time practice ended, sweat soaked through Rin’s shirt and his hair clung to his forehead. But he hadn’t fallen behind.

Not once.

He ran drills with precision. Passed clean. Missed one goal but recovered so fast even Coach just raised his brows.

And the others?

They stopped whispering.

Sae sat on the bench, pulling off his cleats, watching Rin laugh with the other kids—just a little, not too loud, but enough. His smile was small, proud, and messy. Someone tossed him a sports drink. Rin caught it with both hands, beamed, then turned—searching.

His eyes landed on Sae.

And even from a distance, he grinned wider.

Sae didn’t smile back. He just raised his bottle slightly, like a silent acknowledgment. But inside, something eased. Not because Rin was good. Not because of the whispers. But because he could see it now.

This was Rin’s place, too.

As much as it had ever been his.

People talked about them all the time now. It was impossible not to hear it, though Sae had long since stopped caring.

“The Itoshi brothers.”

Coaches said it like a promise. Parents said it with envy. Teammates, sometimes, with a mix of admiration and thinly-veiled annoyance. But Sae didn’t bother paying attention.

He’d heard it all before— prodigy , genius , ball hog . None of it mattered if you put the ball in the net. If you won. He assumed Rin understood that too.

And Rin was getting better. Even Sae had to admit it.

He was fast, surprisingly so for those scrawny legs, with a weird single-minded focus that made him dangerous on the break. Even the older boys had to work to stop him. He was only seven but he trained like someone with something to prove.

That didn’t mean they liked it.

One afternoon, Sae was retying his cleats, sweat still cooling on his back after drills, when he heard a sharp voice cut through the idle chatter.

“Oi. Itoshi.”

He didn’t even bother looking up.

“Not you, the little one.”

Sae’s fingers paused on the laces, and he flicked his eyes sideways. Rin was standing by his bag, one hand still clutching his water bottle, blinking in confusion.

“Huh? What?”

A boy about Sae’s age, a little taller, spat into the dirt near his feet. “Gonna act all hot shit now you’re on the regulars? Think you’re special ‘cause your brother is?”

Rin’s mouth pressed tight, the plastic crinkling under his fingers.

The older kid sneered. “Try not to embarrass yourself next time, huh?”

There were a few snickers from the others nearby. Sae didn’t move. He just watched Rin carefully. Rin was frozen, shoulders bunched tight, staring at the ground.

He felt something ugly coil in his chest.

He stood up, brushing off his shorts deliberately. “Oi.”

The boy turned, annoyed. “What?”

“You done?”

The tone was flat, bored. Like he couldn’t be bothered to make it an insult.

The kid scowled. “What’s it to you—”

“You’re in my way.”

Silence fell. The sneer slipped a bit, replaced by a flicker of something cautious. Then the boy scoffed and shouldered past, muttering under his breath, but he didn’t push it further. Sae didn’t watch him go. He turned to Rin instead.

His little brother hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the dirt, face red and scrunched up, but his eyes were shining like he might actually cry.

He clicked his tongue.

“Rin.”

It was quiet, hard enough that Rin flinched and lifted his head, meeting his gaze reluctantly.

“Don’t bother with them,” Sae said, voice low. “You only need to prove it on the field. That’s it.”

Rin swallowed thickly, blinking hard to clear his eyes. He nodded once, jerky and stiff.

Sae held his gaze for a second longer, then turned away. “Let’s go.”

Rin didn’t argue. He just followed, clutching his bag so tight his knuckles were white.

The weeks that followed went back to normal. Mostly.

They practiced together every day. Matches came and went, and Rin started scoring regularly, fast enough and clever enough that even the older kids grudgingly admitted it. The teasing faded quickly after he put two past the goalkeeper in one match without blinking.

Sae didn’t say good job . He didn’t need to.

Rin already knew what mattered.

But Sae still noticed things.

Off the field, Rin got quiet. Too quiet sometimes. He lingered at Sae’s side when older kids were around. He hesitated before saying hello, eyes darting everywhere but the other kid’s face. When someone shouted on the field—even if it wasn’t at him—Rin would flinch, shoulders drawing up like he was bracing for impact.

And Sae pretended not to see.

Because on the field? Rin was fine. Fierce. Focused. He moved like he’d been born to it, eyes on the ball, legs flying, breathless and determined.

It was off the field that was the problem.

And Sae was just beginning to realize that for Rin, the part after the whistle blew didn’t come as easily.

It wasn’t like Sae hadn’t noticed. He had .

Rin trailing behind more often than not, scuffing his new cleats until the front split, saying less and less even when Sae asked. He’d shrug those skinny shoulders, mumbling “It’s nothing,” with eyes fixed on the dirt.

Sae wasn’t stupid.

He saw the way Rin hesitated now before greeting older teammates. How his smile felt forced when he accepted a tossed drink bottle. But as long as they were on the field, none of it mattered. There, Rin was fine .

Focused. Aggressive. Exactly the kind of player Sae wanted beside him. And that was enough, Sae told himself.

He didn’t need Rin to be anything else.

That day felt normal at first.

Sae arrived early—he always did. The sun was already punishingly hot even though practice hadn’t started. Dust and dry grass clung to the air. He rolled the ball under his foot, counting the taps automatically.

Other kids filtered in slowly, clustering in little groups. He half-listened to the babble of voices, tuning them out with practiced ease. His eyes kept flicking to the edge of the field.

Waiting.

Watching.

He didn’t see green hair bobbing through the gate.

Not weird yet.

Rin was younger. His class let out at a different time. Sae had learned to expect delays—a teacher keeping them behind, a slow crossing guard who insisted on walking every kid over the line.

So Sae shrugged it off.

He picked up the pace on his taps, forcing himself to focus on the ball.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Coach started corralling them in for warmups, voice rising over the noise.

Sae’s jaw ticked. He pushed off the ball harder than he meant to, sending it skidding away. He jogged after it, picking it up and scanning the fence line.

Still no Rin.

He told himself to relax. But he couldn’t stop watching the entrance. By fifteen minutes in, warmups were well underway. Sae wasn’t listening. He was squinting against the glare of the late afternoon sun.

And that’s when it hit him.

It wasn’t just Rin who was missing.

Those other kids—the ones a year older, the ones who mouthed off and spat at the dirt when Rin outplayed them—they weren’t there either.

He felt it immediately.

Like static under his skin. A chill that didn’t belong on a hot day. He turned slowly, scanning the field again. Coach was shouting instructions, and kids were laughing, pushing at each other, calling for passes.

None of them noticed.

No one else was paying attention to who wasn’t there.

Sae’s hand tightened on the ball until the plastic groaned. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask permission. He just turned on his heel and walked off the field.

Coach’s voice reached him, confused and annoyed. “Itoshi! Where are you going?”

Sae didn’t answer.

His strides were sharp, cutting through the dust. He moved past the bleachers, skirting the fence, eyes sweeping the edge of the grounds like he was lining up a shot.

His heart was pounding in his chest, cold and hot at the same time.

Idiot.

Stupid, stubborn idiot.

Because he knew.

He knew Rin would stay quiet. Wouldn’t tell anyone. Would just take it if someone got in his face.

“Don’t bother with them,” he’d told him.

And Rin listened too well.

Now he wasn’t here at all.

Sae ground his teeth, fingers flexing tight on the ball as he forced himself to slow down just enough to look carefully around every corner.

Rin was here somewhere.

He had to be.

He just had to find him.

Sae’s cleats scuffed the dry dirt as he stalked around the side of the field. The breeze was hot against his neck, doing nothing to cool the heat simmering under his skin.

He passed the line of parked bikes, eyes flicking over handlebars and baskets. Nothing.

He cut behind the equipment shed next. It was dimmer there, shade pooling like water around the base of the walls. He let his eyes adjust, slow and careful, listening.

Silence.

He kept moving.

Past the side gate. Past the line of trees that edged the fence. Every step made his chest feel tighter. Rin wouldn’t just skip. He wasn’t that kind of stupid. If he wasn’t at the field, something was wrong.

Idiot.

Why didn’t you just tell me.

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. He remembered Rin’s stupid little voice, mumbling “It’s nothing” while refusing to meet his eyes. Sae turned sharply around the back of the changing rooms. That’s when he heard it.

Voices. Low. Muted. Mean.

He slowed his steps, shoulders tensing.

“…just say it. You only get on the team ‘cause your brother’s there.”

A muffled sound.

Sae stepped closer, rounding the corner carefully. He pressed himself against the wall for one second to listen.

A harsh laugh. “What, cat got your tongue? Say you’re worthless without him.”

Silence.

Sae heard breathing. Heavy. Shaky.

He pushed off the wall and rounded the corner.

Three of them. Older boys, two Sae’s age, one even taller. One of them had a fist curled in Rin’s shirt, yanking him forward so his heels were barely touching the ground. Rin’s hair was mussed, face flushed, eyes wide but hard. He wasn’t crying. But his mouth was clamped shut, trembling.

He wasn’t saying anything.

Of course he wasn’t.

“Oi.”

Sae’s voice wasn’t loud.

But it cracked through the space like a whip. The boy holding Rin jerked, turning with a sneer ready on his face—until he saw Sae.

Sae didn’t stop walking.

He dropped the ball deliberately, letting it roll behind him, hands curling into fists. His cleats ground into the dirt with every step.

No one spoke.

The taller boy shifted uneasily. The one holding Rin’s shirt didn’t let go yet but his grip loosened.

Sae’s eyes cut to Rin for one sharp second.

“Get off him.”

His voice was so flat it didn’t even sound angry. It sounded inevitable.

The kid faltered. “Tch. What’s it to you—”

“I said,” Sae repeated, tone dropping colder, “Get. Off. Him.”

Rin’s eyes flicked to Sae’s face, and for the first time since Sae got there, he saw something like relief flicker across them. The boy let go, shoving Rin back so he stumbled. Sae caught Rin’s shoulder with one hand, steadying him without looking away from the others.

The tension in the air felt thick enough to choke on.

Finally, the tallest kid scoffed. “Whatever. Not worth it.”

They slunk off, muttering, trying to sound braver than they looked.

Sae didn’t move until their footsteps faded.

He let go of Rin’s shoulder slowly, flexing his fingers before shoving them into his pockets. Rin didn’t speak. He just stood there, hair falling in his eyes, breathing hard and ragged.

Sae finally turned to him.

“Stupid.”

It wasn’t an insult. Not really. He reached out and tugged Rin’s shirt straight roughly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Rin’s lips wobbled. He swallowed once, stubbornly blinking. “…It’s nothing,” he whispered.

Sae felt something twist and burn in his chest. He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered. He turned and picked up the ball. “Come on.” He didn’t wait for Rin to answer. He just started walking back toward the field.

After a second, he heard quiet steps behind him.

Rin following.

Like always.

And Sae didn’t look back.

Because he didn’t need to.

They walked home side by side, the late sun slanting long shadows over the narrow street.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Sae dribbled the ball slowly ahead of them, keeping it between his feet in lazy touches, but he wasn’t really focused on it. His mind replayed that scene behind the changing rooms over and over, making his teeth clench.

He cut a glance at Rin.

Rin was dragging his feet, hugging his bag to his chest. His eyes were fixed on the ground, lashes dark against his cheeks. He hadn’t said a single word since they left the field.

Sae slowed until Rin had no choice but to match pace, “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked flatly.

Rin didn’t answer.

He kicked the ball forward harder than necessary. It clattered against a wall. He let it roll before trapping it again with his foot.

“Rin.”

The name snapped out sharper than he meant.

Rin jumped.

Sae exhaled, impatient, “Talk. What happened.”

Rin’s mouth trembled. He blinked quickly, trying to keep his voice steady, “…It was nothing.”

Sae stopped walking. The ball bumped against his ankle and fell still. He turned fully to face his brother.

“ Liar. ”

Rin’s lip wobbled. His fingers curled tighter around the bag strap.

Sae glared. “Was it about you? Something you did?” Rin shook his head, once, tiny and tight, “Then what?”

Rin’s voice came out strangled, “…They talked about you.”

Sae frowned. “Me?”

Rin sniffed, the sound embarrassingly wet. He didn’t look up.

“They said… they said you think you’re so great. That you’re selfish. That you don’t even pass unless it’s for you. That you’d leave the team behind.”

His voice cracked.

Sae felt a slow burn crawl up his neck.

Rin’s breath hitched, “I told them to shut up,” he mumbled miserably. “But they were older. And… and there were three of them. I…” He trailed off.

Sae’s fingers twitched at his sides.

He stared at Rin for a long moment. At the stupid floppy hair, the red-rimmed eyes, the wobbly bottom lip Rin was trying so hard not to let betray him.

“You idiot,” Sae said, voice low and hard.

Rin’s eyes flew up.

Sae stepped forward, close enough that Rin had to crane his neck to keep looking at him.

“You idiot ,” he repeated, biting off every syllable. “Why didn’t you walk away?”

Rin’s face crumpled. “I… I couldn’t! They were lying! They were talking about you like that and… and…” He couldn’t finish.

The tears finally spilled over.

Rin wiped at them frantically with his sleeve, hiccupping small sobs that shook his narrow shoulders.

Sae’s jaw worked. He felt something squeeze painfully in his chest. He wanted to yell. To tell Rin how stupid he was for picking fights he couldn’t win. For being too small. For being too soft. But all he did was stand there, watching Rin cry, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

Finally he hissed through his teeth.

“Stop crying.”

Rin shook his head, crying harder.

“Rin.”

Still sobbing.

Sae felt like punching the wall.

Instead he closed the tiny distance between them and grabbed the collar of Rin’s shirt, tugging it roughly. Rin blinked at him, tears still leaking out of his big dumb eyes. Sae glared at him so hard his own eyes stung.

“I don’t need you fighting for me,” he bit out. “Got it? I don’t need you getting hurt over words.”

Rin hiccuped, “But… they…”

Sae shook him a little, just enough to make Rin gasp.

“I said stop .”

Rin shuddered. His breath hitched. The sobs tapered off into sniffling. Sae let him go abruptly, like he was scalded. He turned away, wiping a hand over his face. “Just… don’t do that again.”

Silence hung between them, heavy and hot. Rin finally whispered, voice tiny, “...Sorry, Nii-chan.”

Sae’s eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t answer. He just bent down, picked up the ball, and started walking again. He heard Rin’s hurried footsteps behind him. Even through the tightness in his throat, he made sure to slow his pace so Rin could catch up.

By the time they got home, the sun was low enough to cast the street in bruised, purplish shadows. The cicadas were screaming from the trees lining the narrow road, a relentless static that seemed to scratch at Sae’s ears.

He hold the ball in silence the whole walk back, letting the repetitive tap-thud-tap of cleat against pavement fill up the spaces where words should have gone.

Rin trailed just behind him, head down, hands curled into pale fists at his sides. His breathing had finally evened out, but his cheeks were still streaked and raw-looking, blotched in that ugly way Sae hated seeing.

Sae didn’t look back. He didn’t say anything. But he slowed his steps at the crosswalk so Rin could catch up without running. He clicked the gate shut behind them carefully, even though he wanted to slam it so hard the hinges screamed.

Inside, their mother’s voice floated from the kitchen, clipped and harried. Pots clattered. “Welcome back. Wash your hands.” Her words snapped like brittle twigs. She didn’t even turn around to see them. Sae kicked off his shoes with more force than necessary, sending one spinning halfway under the step. He didn’t bother fixing it.

Rin’s came off neatly, side by side. Of course. Sae watched him shuffle toward the washbasin, still blinking too often, too hard. The sight made something ache behind Sae’s ribs.

Dinner was quiet, except for the scrape of chopsticks against ceramic and their mother’s exhausted sighs as she graded papers at the table.

Their father was late again. Rin barely picked at his rice. Sae’s jaw flexed every time he glanced at him. He shoveled his own food in mechanically, but it tasted like paste. Their mother didn’t notice. Or if she did, she said nothing.

Later, they were in their room.

The small lamp on Sae’s desk cast the walls in warm, mellow light. Their double-decker bed creaked as Rin climbed slowly onto the lower bunk, settling on his stomach with his arms folded under his chin.

He looked small. Ridiculously small.

Sae pretended to be busy at his desk. He watched Rin’s reflection in the window glass instead of turning around. He could see how Rin was trying not to sniffle. Trying not to make noise. It was pathetic. It made Sae’s throat feel too tight. He clicked his pen twice, three times, and then dropped it with a clack that made Rin flinch.

“Idiot,” Sae muttered, voice so low it barely carried.

Rin didn’t react. Sae sighed through his nose, pushing back from the chair. He got up, grabbing something from the top drawer of his desk. His fingers closed around the coin purse. He rattled it once, listening to the quiet clink of a few lonely coins. He counted them with practiced efficiency, thumb rubbing over the smooth metal.

Enough.

He turned and tossed it into the corner of his school bag.

He pulled on his hoodie even though it was too warm for it, muttering curses at the stubborn zipper, and then gave Rin one last, unreadable look.

“Wait here.”

Rin blinked at him, startled.

Sae didn’t explain. He just left.

The convenience store’s bell chimed dully as he pushed inside, breathing hard from the half-run there. It was too bright in there. Too clean. The freezers hummed like insects. He picked the popsicle carefully.

Not the red one. Rin said that was too sour once.

The milky, pale-blue soda flavor.

He paid with coins that felt heavy in his palm until they left his fingers, then felt absurdly light walking home.

When he came back, he didn’t say anything. He dumped his bag by the door. Rin was still curled up on the lower bunk, eyes open but unfocused. Sae tossed the cold plastic-wrapped bar onto the mattress, hitting Rin in the shoulder.

Rin jerked, looking at it in confusion.

He turned those stupid wide eyes up at Sae.

Sae clicked his tongue, looking away. “Eat it before it melts,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait for Rin to say anything. He climbed the ladder to the top bunk, the metal cool and rattling under his feet. He lay there on his back, staring at the dark ceiling, the plastic wrapping crackling below as Rin peeled it open.

It was quiet for a moment.

Then a small voice floated up.

“…Thank you, Nii-chan.”

Sae’s chest twisted. He didn’t answer. He just let one arm flop over his eyes, listening to the soft, wet sounds of Rin eating the popsicle, and told himself that was enough.

The first thing Sae registered when he stirred was the light.

It leaked in through the curtains in thin, pale stripes, cutting across the ceiling in tidy lines. Dust motes drifted lazily in it, swirling in patterns that made his sleepy eyes blur and refocus.

He blinked once, then twice.

Something heavy was pressed against his side. He squinted, letting his eyes adjust.

Rin.

The little idiot was tucked half under Sae’s blanket, his mop of deep-green hair messier than usual. It flopped across his forehead and stuck to the corner of his mouth with a bit of dried drool. One hand was balled in Sae’s hoodie near his ribs, knuckles pale with the grip even in sleep.

Sae shifted very slightly. He felt the crinkle of plastic against his hip.

He angled his head just enough to see it. The empty wrapper from last night’s popsicle. Rin must have fallen asleep holding it. Sae exhaled through his nose, the sound a mix of annoyance and resignation.

He shifted his arm carefully so he wouldn’t wake Rin, fingers brushing the mess of hair back from Rin’s forehead.

The little brother muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep, mouth twitching. His grip tightened for a moment before slackening.

Sae didn’t pull away.

He stayed there, watching Rin’s face soften into true rest. The dark smudges under his eyes were lighter today. His breathing was even. That stubborn little crease between his brows was gone. Sae let his own eyes slip half-shut.

He felt the smallest, warmest tug at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t a big smile. He didn’t do big smiles.

But it was there.

He watched Rin snore softly, oblivious to everything, and let the tension drain out of his shoulders. Sae sighed, the sound barely above a whisper. “Idiot,” he murmured.

But it was quiet. Fond, even.

He let his eyelids fall all the way, relaxing back onto the pillow, arm loose over his little brother’s shoulders.

Outside, the cicadas were already beginning their morning chorus. The air was warming. But up here, in the top bunk, Sae let himself drift back to sleep. Because for now, everything felt okay. Even with the crumpled wrapper under his hip. Even with Rin breathing on him like a tiny heater. For this moment, he didn’t mind.

Not at all.

Chapter Text

It was quiet after their mother left. Unnervingly quiet.

She hadn’t even hesitated at the door, just snapped, “You two are old enough. No fighting. Lock up after me. Dinner’s in the fridge if you’re useless at cooking,” and that was that. 

Sae remembered that line exactly, the edge in it no longer even stinging but settling into something expected, routine. And honestly, he thought as he straightened by the genkan and let the door click shut behind her, they don’t even fight. He and Rin? That was ridiculous. 

Fighting with Rin would be like yelling at a puppy—he’d just get those wide, hurt eyes, maybe sniffle, and Sae would feel like the world's worst person.

He let his gaze wander around the apartment, taking in the warm rectangles of harsh noontime sun falling onto the scuffed tatami, the stale, too-quiet air of a home that always felt smaller when it wasn’t full of noise. This time it wasn’t Grandpa’s house in Osaka, with its endless corridors and cold floors and heavy silences broken only by Rin’s shouts. 

No, they were home. 

Their cramped, lived-in home where Mom’s voice usually barked from the kitchen and Dad was a silent wall behind his newspaper or laptop, where the television buzzed even when no one watched it. At least they weren’t being dumped off again, carted around like baggage while the adults worked. That was… something, Sae supposed.

He was turning to head toward his room, thinking maybe he could actually have a moment of silence, when a loud, unmistakable noise shattered it, a long, sad, dramatic grrrrrummmble . 

Sae closed his eyes. When he opened them, Rin was standing by the shoe rack, small fists clutching at his T-shirt, head bowed so his too-long green hair fell into his eyes, looking for all the world like a tragic street urchin from TV. 

The sound came again, louder. Rin whimpered, “Nii-chan…” in that tiny, pitiful voice that made Sae want to both throttle him and sigh. 

He did the latter, pinching the bridge of his nose like their father did when he was two seconds away from losing his temper. It’s almost noon, he realized. Of course Rin was starving.

Rin didn’t move, just kept up the theatrics with a small sniffle and the miserable slump of his shoulders. Sae considered ignoring him, pretending not to see it, but that was pointless. Rin wasn’t going to shut up until he was fed. Muttering curses under his breath too quiet for Rin to hear, Sae turned on his heel and stomped toward the kitchen, not even bothering to check if Rin was following. 

He didn’t have to. He heard the soft slap of socks on the floor a beat later, the little huffing whine as Rin caught up, practically stepping on Sae’s heels, sniffle-hiccupping in that way he always did when he thought he was being subtle. 

Sae didn’t look back. He didn’t need to look back. Rin was always there.

The kitchen was as unremarkable as ever—battered white counters with hairline cracks in the laminate, Mom’s precious spice rack (the one she threatened to throw out every week but always reorganized meticulously), the old rice cooker with the slightly melted edge from the time Sae forgot to add water. Sae swung open the fridge with a small grunt, eyeing the contents like they’d personally offended him. The Tupperware sat there like a promise and a threat both. 

Dinner’s in the fridge if you’re useless at cooking. Lazy, he thought, but effective. At least it would shut Rin up.

He tugged it out, flicked the lid, and scowled at the congealed layer on top. Behind him, Rin cleared his throat with exaggerated politeness. Sae turned slowly. Rin was rocking on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, eyes wide and imploring.

“…I’m hungry,” he mumbled, like Sae might have forgotten.

Sae snorted, not even trying to hide the sarcasm. “Yeah, I heard,” he said. Rin’s lower lip wobbled dangerously, and Sae suppressed the instinct to roll his eyes straight out of his skull.

He jerked his chin toward the sink. “Wash your hands.”

Rin brightened instantly, scampering over and nearly tripping in his socks. Sae watched him fumble with the faucet, muttering complaints about the water being too cold, before he turned back to the counter, scraping the curry into the battered saucepan with an annoyed efficiency. It was stupidly domestic, but it worked. 

For a second, just one brief moment, Sae let himself imagine this was fine, normal. He cooking, Rin whining but listening. Their own little world.

Rin, of course, wouldn’t shut up even as Sae reheated the rice. “Nii-chan, is it spicy? I want lots of rice! Not too much! Can I help? Are you listening?”

Sae didn’t bother answering half of it. He just stirred the curry with deliberate care, pretending not to see how Rin had pressed up against the counter on tiptoe to watch, wide-eyed and grinning like an idiot.

Because someone had to do this. Someone had to feed them both.

And right now, that meant him.

For a while, it really wasn’t so bad. 

Sae reheated the rice in the dented old cooker, listening to the soft clicks and mechanical hum that always made the kitchen feel warmer somehow. He set out the chipped bowls, found the clean spoons, arranged them with an absent precision that felt older than ten. 

Behind him, Rin rolled his ball around the cramped living room, dribbling clumsily against the walls until Sae barked at him to cut it out before he smashed the lamp. 

Rin huffed and muttered under his breath about “mean nii-chan,” but obeyed, plopping down in front of the TV with theatrical misery.

Of course they argued over the channel. Rin wanted some dumb sentai show with monsters shrieking every five seconds, while Sae insisted on something decent. He won—he always did—and Rin sulked, arms crossed, nose wrinkled like a petulant cat. 

But he watched anyway. Chibi Maruko-chan filled the room with its cheerful, familiar ending theme. Sae let himself relax a little, leaning back on the sofa arm. He’d always liked the older sister in that show, the way she tried so hard to act responsible but got ignored half the time. He felt a weird kinship with her. 

Watching her made him think about how it wasn’t so bad to be the older one—just that sometimes he wished he could be alone, with no one to look after.

But it was… okay. More than okay, actually. 

He felt a flicker of real pride, watching Rin lean forward with wide eyes, completely absorbed. See? They were fine. They didn’t need her yelling at them from the kitchen, no nagging about homework or vegetables or bath time. 

He could do this. 

He was a good brother.

Then the commercial break hit, and Sae felt the mood sour immediately. It was an ad for some fancy convenience-store cake with whipped cream and strawberries piled high, and the camera zoomed in with cartoon sparkles while the voice-over practically moaned about how soft and delicious it was. 

Sae didn’t even need to look at Rin to know what was coming. 

He heard it.Tthat disgusting, wet little slurp. He turned, and sure enough—Rin’s mouth was actually open, drool slick on his lower lip, eyes shining with raw, unfiltered longing.

“Stop it,” Sae grumbled automatically, snatching the tissue box off the table and pressing it to Rin’s face before the drool could fall. Rin flailed and whined, his voice muffled. Sae was so practiced he didn’t even blink. 

He wiped Rin’s mouth, flicked the tissue away, and glared until Rin sat back down with a meek sniffle.

But he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way Rin kept glancing at the TV even after the cake commercial ended. The way he swallowed, rubbing his stomach unconsciously, his shoulders sagging like he’d just been told Christmas was canceled.

Sae clicked his tongue.

He hated that look.

He sat there another moment, arms crossed, scowling at nothing, before he finally heaved a sigh so loud it startled Rin. Without a word, he pushed himself up and stomped off toward the kitchen.

Rin called after him, all confused. “Nii-chan? Where you going?”

“Shut up,” Sae shot back, not even looking over his shoulder.

He rummaged through the cabinet with single-minded ferocity, ignoring the way Rin hovered in the doorway like a ghost afraid to enter. His hand landed on the bright, stupidly cheery pack of instant cake mix their mom had bought once and forgotten about. 

He held it up, eyeing the smiling cartoon baker on the front like it was a personal challenge. The instructions were in big friendly font, easy enough even for a kid. Add water. A cup of milk. Mix until smooth. Bake.

Sae read it twice.

Three times.

He squinted at the faded picture of the finished product—a fluffy, perfect, golden cake slice—and felt his stomach twist.

He remembered the last time he’d tried using the oven. Mom had screamed. He’d “almost” made it explode. Almost. He’d hit the wrong button, the smell of burning plastic had filled the apartment, and it had taken days for the chemical stink to clear.

But this time he’d be careful.

Sae set the box on the counter with quiet determination, cracking his knuckles, rolling his shoulders like a pro player stepping onto the field. He could do this. He was ten now. He was the older brother.

And if Rin wanted cake? Then he’d give him cake.

He eyed the box of instant cake mix on the counter, the cheap, cheerful packaging with its cartoonishly perfect slice practically mocking him. 

Add water, it said. A cup of milk. Stir until smooth. Bake at 180°C. Easy. Sae read it twice, mouthing the words, refusing to be fooled again. He wasn’t some helpless kid. He could read. He could follow instructions.

He set the oven, twisting the dial with careful precision until it landed square on 180. He even checked it twice before letting it preheat, the little orange light flickering on with a quiet ping that felt like victory. Rin hovered behind him like a shadow, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Can I help?” Rin’s voice was breathless, eyes shining.

Sae snorted. “You’ll just make a mess.”

But he shoved the mixing bowl closer anyway. Rin squeaked in delight, grabbing the milk carton with both hands like it was a treasure. He sloshed too much at first, and Sae clicked his tongue, snatching it back to measure properly. “Watch what you’re doing,” he snapped. Rin giggled and apologized, not sounding sorry at all.

They poured in the water, the mix powder puffing up in a sweet, fake-vanilla cloud that made Rin sneeze. Sae stirred with grim focus, pushing the spoon hard around the bowl’s edges. Rin watched every turn like it was magic, leaning so far over he nearly fell in.

“Stop it,” Sae muttered, using his elbow to shove Rin back a fraction.

But even he had to admit, watching the pale batter go glossy was kind of satisfying. When it was smooth enough, he let Rin lick the spoon, wrinkling his nose at the happy squeal that got in response.

They poured it into the flimsy foil tray from the box. It spread out in a wobbly, uneven pool. Sae thumped the bottom on the counter a couple of times, trying to even it out like he’d seen Mom do with loaf pans. Rin clapped.

“Good job, nii-chan!”

Sae sniffed, pretending not to care. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, but there was a tiny ember of pride warming his chest.

When the oven dinged, Sae hesitated. 

He stared at it like it might betray him again. Last time he’d used it… well, it had ended in yelling and acrid, plastic smoke. But this time he’d read everything. He knew what he was doing. He could do this.

He opened the door carefully, slid the tray in with gloved hands like it was a live bomb, and shut it with the gentlest click imaginable.

He felt… grown-up. Responsible.

They waited, crouched side by side, noses almost pressed to the little oven window. Rin’s eyes were so wide they reflected the orange glow of the coil inside, twin suns of anticipation.

“Nii-chan’s baking,” Rin sing-songed, annoyingly smug.

“Shut up,” Sae said automatically, but he didn’t really mean it. He let out a long sigh through his nose and watched the batter start to puff and darken. This was fine. He had this.

Except—five minutes in, the smell started to change.

At first it was sweet, warm, like real cake should. But then it turned. Sharp. Bitter.

Sae’s nose twitched. He frowned.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?” Rin asked, voice already quivering.

Sae didn’t answer. He squinted through the greasy glass. The cake top had gone too dark too fast, edges curling and blackening like burnt paper.

Panic crawled up his spine.

He grabbed the handle and cracked the door open to check—immediately a blast of hot, reeking smoke punched him in the face.

Rin shrieked, stumbling backwards and landing hard on his butt, eyes enormous.

“Get back!” Sae snapped, voice strangled. He slammed the oven door shut so hard the trays rattled, but it was too late. Smoke poured from the seams in greasy black curls.

He coughed, eyes stinging, the smell so sharp and chemical he tasted it. The overhead fan whirred pathetically, doing nothing. He twisted the dials frantically. Off. Off. Why wasn’t it turning off?! The orange coil stayed lit, hissing, cake batter bubbling over and hitting the bottom in sizzling black splatters.

A pop made him flinch back. 

Another column of smoke gushed out around the edges. The shrill smoke alarm on the ceiling began to wail, piercing and metallic, bouncing off the walls in an unholy echo.

Rin was sobbing now in the entrance, curled half behind the shoe rack. “Nii-chan! Stop it! Make it stop!”

Sae’s heart thundered. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the counter. He couldn’t see—his eyes were watering too much, his nose burned.

He realized how alone they were. No Mom yelling. No Dad stepping in. No one but them.

His stomach turned to ice.

He snatched the phone off the hook with trembling fingers.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He called Dad.

He didn’t remember half the call. His voice had cracked on the first word, then blurred into breathless panic while Dad’s stayed tight and clipped, each order cutting through the static in his brain like a knife.

“Get Rin outside. Open the windows. Don’t touch anything else.”

Sae obeyed without thinking.

He grabbed Rin under the arms and hauled him up despite the little kicks of resistance, dragging them both to the landing outside. The apartment door gaped open behind them like a blackened mouth, smoke curling out in sinister, drifting fingers that vanished into the frigid evening air.

The cold hit them both instantly. Sae’s lungs burned at the change, but he forced himself to gulp the clean, freezing air in huge ragged breaths. Rin clung to his shirt with both fists, knuckles white, face pressed so hard to Sae’s ribs it felt like he might vanish inside him altogether.

Sae didn’t push him away.

He just shifted his grip, pressing a flat palm against the trembling line of Rin’s narrow back. It was so warm he might as well have been holding a living coal, but Sae didn’t let go. He couldn’t. He swallowed hard around the tight, metallic taste in his mouth, fighting the tears that threatened to come.

The shrill fire alarm inside kept screaming, slicing through the quiet outside like a knife. Sae squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look at the doorway. Didn’t want to see the curling smoke that already carried the reek of chemical dust and burnt sugar, or the dim glow of the kitchen light glinting off white powder and soot.

He didn’t want to see what he’d done.

He pressed his palm harder to Rin’s back instead, feeling every sob rack his brother’s smaller frame. Rin’s hiccuping gasps sounded raw, wet, terrified. Sae blinked furiously until his eyes cleared enough to see the stairwell.

That was the only warning before Dad thundered up it.

He arrived in under ten minutes, still in his work clothes, his tie askew and his hair windblown. He didn’t shout. He didn’t even slow down. He just swept past Sae with the awful, deliberate calm of an adult who was truly, incandescently furious but holding it all in for later.

He barked one word over his shoulder: “Stay.”

Sae flinched, pulling Rin back another half-step, the cold concrete biting his socked feet. He watched Dad disappear through the smoke-thick door.

They heard it all.

The stomp of shoes on the scorched floor. The shriek of the smoke alarm suddenly cut off as Dad ripped the batteries out. The hiss of the fire extinguisher, loud and violent, filling the apartment with its sickly chemical dust in one roaring breath of white. Cabinets clattered. Metal squealed.

The smell changed again—smoke gone, replaced by sharp, choking dryness.

Rin’s sobs slowed to miserable whimpers. Sae adjusted his hold, feeling the wetness soak through his shirt at Rin’s cheeks. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t dare.

When Dad reappeared in the doorway, his work shirt was gray with soot. He wiped his mouth once, smearing white dust across his face. His eyes were terrifyingly steady.

He didn’t say a word to them.

Just stepped back inside to check every corner of the apartment, yanking open the windows with loud, scraping bangs until the wind roared in, dragging the last curls of smoke away.

Sae stood frozen. He couldn’t move his feet. His stomach twisted like it wanted to climb into his throat and escape. He watched Rin’s trembling fingers dig harder into the hem of his shirt.

When Dad finally came back out, he stood in the doorway looking at them for a long moment. The wind flattened his shirt against his ribs, whipping his hair.

Sae didn’t dare meet his eyes.

He just tightened his grip on Rin and let the silence press on him, heavy and choking as the smoke had been.

Later, after that frozen silence had curdled into something unbearable, Dad’s voice finally came. 

Quiet. Too quiet. It cut straight through the sound of the wind rattling the stairwell and the thin echo of distant city noise.

“Any of you injured?”

Sae’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. 

His lips moved soundlessly, lungs hitching, throat locked tight around words that refused to form. He tried to swallow them down, felt them scrape raw on the way.

Behind him, Rin hiccupped. Sae felt the tremor travel all the way up his arm. Little fingers clamped around his wrist like manacles, cold and damp, refusing to let go. He didn’t look back. He could feel Rin’s face pressed into his back, hear the muffled sniffling that made his spine stiffen and ache.

Dad’s eyes swept over them both, dark and unreadable. His shoulders rose on a long inhale and dropped even slower, like he was measuring out the anger one last time, caging it.

He sighed. But it wasn’t a relief. It was that scraped-out sound of disappointment so deep it felt endless.

“You could have burned the whole building down.”

Sae flinched. Physically flinched.

The words went in like a knife. Not loud. Not cruel. Just factual. Worse, somehow, than if Dad had shouted or raged.

He felt something twist in his chest, hot and acidic, filling his lungs until they burned. His eyes stung so badly he had to blink hard, fast, over and over. He wanted to rub them but didn’t dare. Not in front of Dad.

He wouldn’t.

He bit the inside of his cheek so hard it hurt, grounding himself with the taste of metal and spit. He focused on that, on the small, humiliating pain that was easier to manage than the crushing ache in his ribs.

Beside him, Rin whimpered. Sae’s free hand reached back automatically, finding Rin’s hair, fingers tangling in it gently even as he tried to keep the rest of himself rigid. Rin pressed closer. 

He could feel every shuddering breath, every new wet sob that Rin tried and failed to smother.

Dad just looked at them for another long second. Sae forced himself to meet those eyes, even if only for a heartbeat, before he had to drop his gaze to the concrete landing.

He didn’t cry.

Not in front of Dad.

He didn’t speak when they cleaned it up.

Didn’t say a word while Dad scrubbed the walls with that harsh, astringent cleaner that made Sae’s nose burn and eyes water for reasons that weren’t just the fumes. He just did what he was told—holding the trash bag open, picking up the melted, blackened tray with shaking fingers, sweeping up brittle flakes of burnt batter that crackled under the broom.

Rin didn’t speak either. He stayed glued to Sae’s side like a second shadow, silent but for the occasional wet sniffle. His red-rimmed eyes tracked Sae everywhere. Every time Sae moved even a step away, Rin grabbed his sleeve and clung like he was afraid Sae might vanish.

Dad didn’t say much then. 

Just gave short, clipped instructions. But his face was stiff, mouth a flat line, jaw tight enough to make the muscles stand out like ridges.

When they were done, the place was cleaner but smelled like smoke and chemicals and failure.

Dad sent Rin to bed first.

Rin resisted, crying again, but Dad was firm. Eventually he shuffled off, shoulders slumped, looking over his shoulder at Sae like he was afraid he’d come back to another fire. Sae stood there in the silence of their ruined kitchen, fists curling and uncurling, nails biting into his palms.

He didn’t follow.

When he finally emerged from the hallway, Dad was waiting for him on the couch. The TV was off. The room felt hollow without it. Just the two of them in a too-big silence, the hum of the fridge the only sound.

“Sae. Sit.”

He did. Slowly. Like he was going to his own execution.

Dad didn’t look at him at first. He scrubbed a hand over his face, streaking faint black smears of leftover soot across his cheek. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled, but it wavered around the edges like something raw he was trying to hold in.

“You scared me today, Sae.”

Sae couldn’t look at him. He stared at the floor, at the pale scuffs on the old carpet, at his own socked toes curling in tight. His throat felt thick. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t help.

“We told you. No oven when we’re not home.”

That one hit harder than the cleaner stinging his scraped hands. He winced, lowering his head more. His eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with smoke. He blinked fast, refusing to let anything fall. 

Not now. Not in front of Dad.

Dad let out a long, exhausted breath.

“Your mom wouldn’t like to hear about this.”

Sae’s mouth twisted at that. He bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to think about her yelling, the inevitable scolding over the phone, the disappointment that was somehow worse than anger.

Dad shook his head, voice tight.

“You could’ve burned the whole place down. Hurt yourself. Hurt your brother. Sae—this isn’t just about you. You’re the big brother. You’re responsible.”

Sae’s fingers curled tighter in his lap. His knuckles were red and stinging, scraped from when he’d slammed the oven door shut and tried to yank it open again in blind panic. He could still feel the heat ghosting over them, the hiss of the smoke, the shriek of Rin’s cries.

He hated this.

He hated the reminder.

That he’d failed.

That everything was his fault.

Dad’s voice blurred after that, a dull buzz that drowned under Sae’s thoughts. He heard words—irresponsible, dangerous, too old for this—but they washed over him without sticking, lost under the rising tide of guilt roaring in his ears.

He’d put Rin in danger.

He’d almost burned their house down.

His chest felt tight. Too tight. Like something heavy and jagged was lodged behind his ribs, pressing so hard he couldn’t draw a real breath.

“Sae.”

His head jerked up, startled. He hadn’t even realized Dad had moved.

Dad was kneeling in front of him now, the old, battered first-aid kit open on the coffee table. Sae blinked at it dumbly, then at his father’s face.

“Let me see your hand,” Dad said, quieter this time.

Sae frowned, confused.

“What…?”

But Dad didn’t wait. He reached out and took Sae’s scraped hand gently, turning it palm up with care that made Sae’s eyes sting even worse. He felt the heat of his father’s fingers, the way they trembled ever so slightly even though his voice stayed steady.

“Look at this.” Dad’s thumb brushed the reddened, abraded skin, the swelling knuckles. “You did this trying to fix it, didn’t you.”

Sae didn’t answer. His lips wobbled. He bit down on them hard enough to taste blood, but that only made everything worse.

Dad’s gaze softened, even as his mouth stayed firm.

“You’re brave, Sae.”

He blinked rapidly, confused.

Dad’s voice lowered further, warm and weighted, breaking something inside him.

“You did a good job protecting your brother.”

That was it.

The dam burst.

Sae couldn’t stop it even though he tried, even though he pressed his lips together so tightly they hurt. The tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable, running down his cheeks in messy, ugly streams. His shoulders shook with each ragged breath he couldn’t hold in.

Dad just held his hand a little tighter, the first-aid kit still open, waiting.

The sobs wracked his small frame, so fierce they made his chest hurt and his nose clog up painfully. Sae tried to quiet them, tried to clamp down on the awful, wet sounds spilling out of him, but he couldn’t. 

His breathing hitched and cracked in humiliating gasps that he couldn’t disguise.

He felt the warmth of Dad’s hands, firm but careful, one still cradling his scraped palm, the other rising to gently brush the tears streaking down his cheek.

“Hey,” Dad murmured, voice so quiet it barely reached over Sae’s hiccuping breaths. His thumb swiped another tear away, leaving behind a smudge of rough, calloused skin that made Sae squeeze his eyes shut even harder.

“Look at me.”

He forced his eyes open, blinking through the blur, lashes clumped and wet. Dad’s face was right there, closer than Sae wanted but somehow not close enough, the lines around his mouth drawn tight with worry but softened by something else, something Sae didn’t quite know how to name.

Dad smiled. It was crooked and weary and didn’t hide the exhaustion in his eyes, but it was real.

“That’s my boy.”

Sae’s lip wobbled again. He sniffed so hard it burned.

“You did good, Sae. You got Rin out. You remembered to call me. You kept your brother safe. That’s what matters.”

Sae shook his head, a tiny, trembling jerk that made fresh tears slide down. His voice cracked, hoarse and raw. “But I messed it up,” he whispered, barely audible. “It was all my fault.”

Dad sighed, not in anger this time but like he was trying to hold something back himself. His thumb traced Sae’s cheek again, catching another tear.

“It was an accident. And you fixed it the best you could.”

Sae swallowed painfully. His scraped knuckles throbbed in Dad’s grip, but he didn’t try to pull away.

“You’re ten, Sae. Ten. You shouldn’t have to worry about things like this yet. But you did anyway.”

Dad shook his head again, eyes shining in the dim light.

“You’re a good big brother.”

That did it.

Sae let out a shuddering sob that made his whole body shake, his free hand coming up to scrub at his face in embarrassed frustration. But Dad was faster, gently catching his wrist and pulling it down, refusing to let him hide.

“Hey. It’s okay.”

He didn’t say anything more for a moment, just let Sae cry, held his scraped hand in one of his own and wiped his face with the other. The first-aid kit sat forgotten on the table between them.

When Sae’s crying finally slowed, reduced to wet sniffling and breathless hiccups, Dad’s voice came again, low and steady.

“I’m proud of you.”

Sae blinked, eyes wide, raw, disbelieving.

Dad squeezed his hand very gently.

“I mean it. I don’t say it enough. But I am.”

The words hit something deep in Sae’s chest, cracking it open so wide it hurt. He dropped his head forward, pressing his forehead against Dad’s shoulder, shoulders jerking with the last broken sobs he couldn’t hold back.

Dad’s arm went around him, warm and solid, pulling him in close.

He just held him.

And for the first time that night, Sae let himself believe—even for a second—that maybe it would be okay.

Later, when the tears were finally gone and the sting in his eyes was just exhaustion, Dad made him drink water and dabbed antiseptic on his scraped knuckles. It hurt, but Sae didn’t flinch. He sat there stiff-backed and silent, swallowing against the rawness in his throat, watching the cotton ball bloom red and brown.

Dad didn’t say much else. Just patted his shoulder, heavy and grounding, before sending him off to bed.

Sae walked through the house like a ghost. 

The kitchen was still half-blackened, smelling of old smoke and harsh cleanser. Even the living room seemed tainted by the lingering gray film. He paused in the doorway, staring at it in the dark, the ruin of his own making.

He heard his father’s voice in his head, tight with disappointment— You could have burned the whole place down.

But also that quieter voice, the one that slipped past every defense— You did a good job protecting your brother. I’m proud of you.

It sat heavy in his chest, both things at once.

He pushed the bedroom door open as quietly as he could.

Rin was asleep on the lower bunk, curled on his side, mouth half open, a dried trail of tears on one cheek. One hand still clutched at the edge of Sae’s comforter, like even in sleep he was afraid Sae might vanish if he didn’t hold on.

Sae watched him for a long moment.

His throat felt tight all over again, but he forced himself to take a slow breath.

He knew even now—even with the acrid smoke-stained walls, with his father’s disappointed voice ringing in his ears, and his own chest raw from crying—he’d do it again.

He’d try again.

Because Rin needed him to.

Chapter Text

Sae lay flat on the brand-new queen-size bed, the mattress firm in that unfamiliar way new things always felt. The room still smelled faintly of paint and freshly unboxed furniture—sharp, chemical, too clean. It wasn’t huge, just enough for the bed, a desk tucked into one corner, and a narrow closet that still yawned open, half-filled with his clothes hastily shoved inside.

He traced the ceiling with his eyes, the faint lines of plaster catching the light from the tiny hallway glow seeping under the door. There wasn’t much to see. Just blank, empty white. It had been the storage room before—filled with old boxes, summer fans, battered suitcases. Now it was his. His own room. His own space.

Wasn’t this what he’d wanted?

He remembered overhearing it weeks ago. Mom’s voice, brisk, decisive— They’re big enough now. Give them their own rooms. Rin can handle himself. Sae doesn’t need to keep babysitting him.

He’d felt something hot and tight in his chest then, though he hadn’t let it show.

Now, sprawled in the dark with nothing but his own thoughts, that feeling crawled back.

Why hadn’t he gotten his own room at nine? When he was big enough? He’d been tucking Rin in every night since he could remember, wiping away drool, pushing away nightmares, making sure his little brother didn’t wake screaming over monsters in the dark.

But he didn’t want to dwell on that.

Didn’t want to be bitter.

He rolled onto his side, pulling the new blanket up to his chin. It was too stiff. Smelled like the store, not like anything real. Not like the shared blanket they used to fight over, the faded blue one with pilled cotton that Rin always stole in his sleep.

He closed his eyes.

Silence pressed at his ears.

No quiet rustle of Rin shifting in the lower bunk. No sleepy mumble of nii-chan . No sound of that ridiculously loud breathing Rin did when he was exhausted, mouth open, little snores that used to drive Sae crazy.

It was…peaceful.

It was what he’d always insisted he wanted.

Privacy. His own space.

Grown up.

He should be glad.

But his stomach felt knotted.

He wondered how Rin was holding up in the other room—their old room, transformed, with new sheets and a fresh lamp. Mom had praised him, told him he was big now, and Rin had smiled, shy and pleased.

Big enough now that Sae didn’t need to tuck him in.

Big enough not to need him.

He shifted on the mattress, restless. His eyes felt heavy, gritty with the late hour, but he didn’t want to close them.

Didn’t want to be alone with the quiet.

Because the quiet wasn’t empty. It was filled with the memory of Rin’s small voice saying nii-chan , of warm weight against his side when nightmares hit, of hands clutching his sleeve even in sleep.

He pressed his face into the pillow and let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

It wasn’t that he missed it.

He was just…

He didn’t finish the thought.

Instead he stared into the dark until his eyelids finally dropped closed, the silence ringing in his ears like something he couldn’t outrun.

He must have dozed off at some point, though he didn’t remember the exact moment sleep claimed him, just that uncomfortable weight in his chest easing under the heavy blankets. But the knock—soft, uncertain, like someone testing if it was even allowed—jerked him back to groggy half-awareness. 

He blinked at the dark, disoriented, the shadows bending weirdly around the new furniture. 

For a second he almost ignored it, convinced he was imagining things in the silence he hated so much. But then the sound came again—barely audible, more of a scrape than a rap—and the door creaked open with a hesitant wail that made his teeth grit at the noise.

A wedge of pale hallway light cut across the unfamiliar floorboards, turning the plain walls into towering, uneven shapes. 

In that beam stood Rin. 

The younger boy hovered behind the door, fingers gripping the edge like he needed the wood to hold himself up. He looked unbearably small in the gap, his oversized owl plush squashed under one thin arm, its felt beak poking his ribs. His hair was a dark mess, falling in straight strands over wide, teal eyes that shone too wet in the dimness. 

Sae saw him swallow once, throat working hard around words that refused to come out, before he finally managed, voice cracking like it hadn’t settled yet—“Nii-chan…”

Sae didn’t answer at first. 

He just lay there, propped on one elbow, feeling the weight of that single word like someone had pressed a thumb into his sternum and held it there. 

He felt too old suddenly, too tired, far too aware of how silent the new room was. He let out a slow exhale through his nose, not quite a sigh but close enough. 

Rin didn’t move. He shifted awkwardly, plush squeaking faintly as he squeezed it tighter, gaze dropping to the floor in that guilty way that always made Sae want to snap at someone who wasn’t even there.

“I… I can’t… sleep,” Rin forced out at last. 

The admission tumbled free with so much effort it was pathetic. He blinked fast, lashes wet. Sae wanted to roll his eyes but found he couldn’t muster the energy.

Instead, he made a show of clicking his tongue, letting the derision hang in the air like cheap armor. “Tch.” He squinted at the door gap. “Well? You just going to stand there?”

Rin jumped at the permission, shuffling forward with that weird urgency kids had, all knobby knees under thin pajama pants, bare feet slapping the floor with soft thuds. He practically clambered onto the bed before Sae had properly moved over, owl plush in a death grip, his bony shoulder bumping Sae’s ribs without apology. The queen-sized mattress dipped and shifted, sheets rustling in the hush.

Sae felt him settle in, pressing close like he couldn’t help himself, the owl wedged between them like it deserved its own place of honor. 

Rin’s breath hitched for a second before evening out, a hiccuping sigh of relief brushing Sae’s sleeve. Sae held himself rigid, resisting the urge to shove him away for making the bed hot and cramped, then sighed again—this one real, weary, too soft for Rin to hear.

He let his arm drop around Rin’s narrow shoulders, fingers flexing once before going still. He could feel the tension bleed out of the smaller body, the way Rin relaxed completely, trusting him like he always did. 

It was ridiculous. It was annoying. It was… fine.

“Baby,” Sae muttered, voice low and meant to sting, but there was no heat in it.

Rin’s sleepy voice mumbled, muffled against the blanket and Sae’s arm. “Am not…”

Sae didn’t bother answering, didn’t tell him to shut up or roll away. He just listened as the small, warm weight beside him went slack with sleep, breathing turning slow and noisy, the familiar wet snuffle that used to irritate him so much somehow sounding like home in the dark. 

The room didn’t feel so big anymore. 

Didn’t feel so new and strange.

He blinked heavily, eyes dry and gritty, the last of the leftover resentment from earlier pooling at the bottom of his stomach where he could ignore it for now. He shifted once more, arm tightening just enough to make sure Rin wouldn’t slide off the edge if he squirmed in his sleep.

Sae let his eyes drift shut at last, breathing out long and even, listening to the quiet—not empty, but full of Rin’s ridiculous breathing, the owl plush squeaking if Rin’s arm moved. The room was silent, yes. 

But for the first time that night, it wasn’t alone.

They were supposed to meet at the practice field like usual after school. 

Sae had finished early—he always did these days, disciplined to the second, boots cleaned, water bottle ready, shin guards on tight. He lingered near the side fence, ball tucked under one arm, idly tapping it with the heel of his shoe while watching for the familiar flash of deep green hair bobbing among the uniforms.

Rin was always easy to spot. He walked with that weirdly stiff posture, hugging his bag too close, head ducked as if to make himself smaller. 

Even at nine he hadn’t really shaken the habit of glancing around nervously, wary of being noticed. Sae had always thought it was so typical of him—timid, quiet, weirdly polite even when you didn’t need to be. 

A kid who couldn’t even yell properly in arguments without crying.

Sae knew him better than anyone, after all.

So when Rin didn’t show on time, Sae barely twitched. 

It happened. Different grade, different exit. He waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. He shifted restlessly, checking the gate. Annoyance itched in the back of his teeth. He hated being late. He hated not knowing .

When he finally heard the shouting, it was coming from the side alley behind the school fence. Sae went rigid. It wasn’t the usual playground shrieking. It was angrier. Sharper.

He didn’t run, not exactly, but he walked fast enough to kick gravel up behind him, ball forgotten in the grass.

He found them around the corner. Three boys. All older. Fifth graders maybe, taller and broader. Sae’s eyes skipped right over them at first, narrowing on the smaller shape in the middle.

Rin.

Hair mussed, face red, breathing hard. Bag on the ground. Owl keychain snapped loose, dangling from the strap. One knee scuffed raw.

And his fist was balled.

Sae blinked once, thinking his eyes were lying to him.

Because Rin was punching someone.

It wasn’t clumsy flailing. It was small, angry, focused . His eyes—those wide teal eyes that always went watery at the first hint of scolding—were narrow, gleaming like wet glass. His mouth twisted in a snarl that didn’t even look like his.

“Say it again!” Rin barked, voice cracking but furious, thin and sharp enough to cut.

The older boy he’d clocked staggered back, hand at his cheek. He wasn’t crying. But he was definitely surprised.

Another boy swore and lunged. Rin didn’t back down—he met him. Sae watched, rooted, as his little brother threw himself into it, all bone and rage, even knowing he’d lose.

The insults they traded were the kind that got you dragged to the teacher’s office immediately. Sae heard “shitty midget” and “better than you’ll ever be,” and something filthy Rin spat back with such ugly sneering precision that Sae didn’t even know Rin knew those words.

Sae’s fingers curled around the fence until the metal bit into his palm.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t yell for them to stop.

He just watched.

The fight didn’t last. A teacher’s voice bellowed from the yard and the boys scattered, curses trailing behind them. Rin stayed a second longer, panting like a cornered cat, then scooped up his bag and scrubbed at his nose with his sleeve. Sae saw blood there, smearing in a dark streak.

Rin didn’t even flinch at it.

He turned slowly, shoulders heaving.

For a moment their eyes met through the fence.

Rin’s expression didn’t crumble. He didn’t cry. He just glared at Sae, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Sae’s chest went tight with something he didn’t have a name for.

He felt like he was looking at a stranger.

Not the baby who used to bawl over scraped knees. Not the kid who needed him to shoo cockroaches away or wipe the drool off his chin before it fell.

This was Rin.

Fists bruised. Breath ragged. Teeth bared in something halfway between hate and hurt. For one wild second Sae wanted to jump the fence and grab him, shake him and demand what the hell he thought he was doing.

But he didn’t.

He let the metal bite deeper into his palm.

He watched Rin shoulder his bag roughly and stomp off, limping a little.

Sae’s head felt weirdly light.

He didn’t follow. He let himself turn away slowly, the alley spinning a little around him, heartbeat in his ears like it wanted to drown out the sound of Rin’s insults still echoing off the walls.

When he finally moved, it was the other direction entirely.

He didn’t want to think about it yet.

He didn’t want to admit he didn’t know who the hell he’d just seen. And that maybe, just maybe, he’d been wrong about his little brother all this time.

Sae didn’t mention it.

He didn’t say a single word about that day behind the fence. Not on the walk home, not over dinner, not while brushing his teeth side by side with Rin, watching the mirror fog with their breath. He didn’t say it even when Rin crawled onto his bed later that night because a thunderstorm started rattling the windows, clutching his owl plush in one arm and tugging at Sae’s sleeve with the other until he scooted just enough to let him in.

And Rin didn’t mention it either.

Not a flicker of that fight showed on him. 

Not in the pinched lines of his face. Not in the way he gnawed at the edge of his thumb in concentration doing homework. Not in the practiced dribble of his football at the field, his head so low to the ground that Sae always snapped at him to watch up or he’d never see a defender coming .

Rin was the same as ever.

He whined when Sae threatened to eat the last dumpling. He sulked theatrically, cheeks puffed, when Sae flicked his forehead. He let Sae tie his shoelaces when the knot tangled, muttering “I can do it myself,” but never actually pulling away.

Sae would catch himself staring sometimes. Waiting. Expecting.

But nothing changed.

So he made himself forget.

Because what did it matter?

Rin was Rin. That stupid look on his face when he didn’t get a joke. The way he still sometimes fell asleep leaning against Sae’s arm on the train ride home, drooling until Sae shoved him awake.

Rin wasn’t someone who threw punches and spat curses. That was a weird one-off. Sae convinced himself of it so thoroughly it felt like the memory faded to static.

Until one afternoon at school.

Practice was starting soon, but Sae was in no rush. He sat on the bench outside the building, chin resting on one palm, boots tapping rhythm on concrete. A few of his classmates were loitering too, bags slung over their shoulders, swapping cards and stupid rumors.

He didn’t even look at them until one boy, a shaggy-haired midfielder whose name Sae never bothered remembering properly, suddenly laughed and nudged him with an elbow.

“Oi, Itoshi,” the kid said, voice full of stupid, conspiratorial mischief. “Your little brother’s kinda feral, huh?”

Sae blinked once, his brain turning over the word like a foreign phrase he hadn’t studied.

He answered without thinking, the words dry and automatic. “Rin? He’s just a crybaby.”

The boy blinked. Tilted his head, brows knitting. “Hah? Crybaby? Nah. He’s scary.”

Sae finally shifted, spine straightening. He glared flatly at the boy, unimpressed.

The kid snickered nervously, clearly misreading it as challenge. He explained, too eagerly, “He got into it with those three from 5-B. They’re older than him, but he didn’t back off. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept going at ‘em. My buddy saw it. Said your brother’s eyes looked like he was gonna eat them alive.”

He gestured, mock-clawing the air for emphasis. “Like a little monster or something. Honestly kinda badass.”

Sae didn’t say anything for a second too long.

The boy frowned. “Wait, you didn’t know?”

He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders like it meant nothing. “They’re lying.”

The classmate just laughed uncomfortably, raising his hands. “Suit yourself.”

Sae stood without another word, slinging his bag over one shoulder with a little too much force. He walked away before he let anything show on his face.

Because he had seen it.

He’d seen Rin’s teeth bared in a snarl, fists landing with purpose. He’d heard the ugliness in his voice.

He just didn’t want to admit it.

He kept walking, ignoring the shuffle of teammates behind him. The late autumn wind snapped at his collar. His palms felt cold and clammy.

Because he should know Rin better than anyone.

He did know Rin better than anyone.

Didn’t he?

He pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth, eyes narrowing at the ground.

Rin was supposed to be the baby. The one who tripped over nothing and cried when Sae flicked him too hard. Who clung to his shirt on crowded trains. But in that moment behind the fence, that wasn’t the face Sae saw at all.

He hated that it was harder than it should be to decide if the boy he’d seen was really Rin.

So he shoved the memory back down.

Because Rin was Rin. And that was the only answer he was ready to live with.

The late afternoon sun beat down on the pitch, baking the dirt to a hard crust under Sae’s cleats. It was one of those special practice days where all the local youth teams shuffled players around for “cooperation and growth,” which was just adult-speak for testing them outside their comfort zones.

Sae didn’t mind. He liked variety. He liked showing the other coaches exactly why he was the best striker in their age bracket.

But today, Rin wasn’t on his team.

They’d split the brothers immediately. It made sense, technically. 

No point letting them use the same near-telepathic coordination they’d spent years drilling. Sae hadn’t worried about it. Rin had grown a lot since joining the regulars. He could handle himself.

He kept half an eye on Rin’s team while they ran drills. Rin was faster now. More confident on the ball. His hair was getting long in front and slapped against his forehead with every sprint.

It was during the match that things went sideways.

Sae had just delivered a clean shot to his side of the net when he heard it—a weird scramble of noise. He turned, scanning the pitch.

Rin was tearing after a loose ball, mouth slightly open, teeth showing like a determined little beast. He was in perfect form, low center of gravity, fast. But so was another boy—taller, older by a year maybe. They didn’t see each other. They were too focused.

They crashed together in a full-body collision that sent the ball spinning uselessly off the sideline.

The whistle went. Coaches started shouting.

But Sae didn’t even flinch. He saw the moment it happened. Rin blinked, dazed, and then his face twisted.

“That was mine!” Rin barked, voice cracking but furious.

The other boy snapped back. “You can’t just hog it, you—”

It was like something in Rin snapped .

They were nearly the same height. Same weight class. Sae’s eyes narrowed as he watched Rin ball his fists and lunge without thinking. The other kid met him head-on. They grappled awkwardly before one of them managed to land a punch—messy, unpracticed. Another fist caught Rin square on the nose.

Blood immediately welled and dripped onto his lip.

Sae felt the air in his chest lock tight.

Around them, adults were already running in. The coaches yelled over each other. Hands grabbed at both kids, pulling them apart. Rin was snarling, literally baring teeth like a cornered stray, red staining his mouth. But Sae caught it.

That look.

A brief flash of absolute focus. Like nothing in the world existed except that one moment, that one fight.

He remembered Rin’s old words, the ones that had haunted Sae for years now: “I want to fight someone stronger. And die like that.”

He felt the hair on his arms stand up.

Because for all his snarling, for all the fists and blood, Rin hadn’t seen the other boy coming. He’d been too zeroed in on the ball. Sae could imagine it so clearly—the way Rin’s mouth had probably been slack, maybe even drooling a little, eyes round with focus. So desperate to win he forgot there were other people.

Sae exhaled slowly.

This…this was still Rin.

But it was also something else.

A part of him Sae hadn’t been ready to see. A raw, ugly, real fire that hadn’t been honed yet. But it would be. Someday.

He’d be unstoppable.

And Sae found he liked that idea more than he expected.

But that was a thought for later.

Right now Rin was still being held back, breathing hard, nose bloody and eyes glassy with anger and humiliation. Sae stepped forward. Didn’t raise his voice.

“Rin. Enough.”

Rin’s head jerked up at the familiar tone. He froze. Chest heaving. Blood trailing onto his chin. But he didn’t fight anymore. Didn’t say anything, either.

He just turned away from the other boy and shook off the coach’s grip, stumbling toward Sae’s voice like it was gravity itself. He refused to meet Sae’s eyes, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, smearing red everywhere.

Sae didn’t say anything else.

He just moved closer, hand on Rin’s shoulder, feeling the tremor there.

Yeah. That’s mine.

Even the parts he hadn’t seen before. Even the ones that scared him.

The door shut behind them with a dull clack, sealing out the world and its echoing shouts of coaches and teammates and bloodied noses and fights. Sae stepped out of his shoes, the cool genkan tile grounding him, ready to tell Rin to wash up, maybe clean the dried blood still stubborn on his brother’s upper lip. 

But before he could even open his mouth, he heard it.

A tiny, shuddering sniffle.

Sae paused, one foot on the step up, head turning sharply. 

Rin was half behind him, clutching his soccer bag so tightly his fingers were white at the knuckles. His hair fell into his eyes, sticking there damp with sweat and grime, and his mouth trembled like a kid trying so hard not to cry.

Sae felt a surge of confusion—almost irritation. 

Because this wasn’t the boy he’d seen on the field an hour ago. That Rin had snarled like a dog, fists up, blood dripping, refusing to back down even when people had to physically pry him off. That Rin hadn’t looked like he could even spell the word ‘tears’.

Yet here he was now, sniffling in the silence of their little home.

Without thinking, Sae blurted, “Why are you crying?”

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was genuinely baffled.

Rin hiccupped on a half-sob, eyes squeezing shut, voice tight and reedy. “Are you mad with me, Nii-chan?” The words cracked. He sounded so small it made something twist in Sae’s chest.

But Sae just frowned harder, trying to parse it. “Why are you only crying now?” His voice wasn’t angry, but it was flat, curious, almost exasperated. “You were so different back then.”

Rin’s breath hitched again, shuddering. He scrubbed a forearm across his face, smearing the dried blood and tears into a messy, raw smear. His eyes glared through the tears, wet and stubborn. “Why would I cry in front of some stupid stranger?”

Sae blinked.

“...What?”

Rin hiccupped again, swallowing it down. His mouth twisted in a petulant frown, brows drawing together in that familiar stubborn line. “I’m not gonna cry there. In front of them.”

Sae’s voice softened despite himself. “What do you mean?”

Rin sniffed hard, wiping again, managing to clear enough that Sae could see the eyes underneath—all glassy green, too big for his still-round face. “I only cry here.” His voice fell, quiet and certain, like he was explaining something obvious to an idiot. “I only cry to you. Sometimes Mom and Dad. But… mostly you.”

For a moment, the words didn’t even register.

Sae’s mouth parted, air catching in his throat. He felt something sharp in his chest, like someone had hooked a wire there and yanked.

“Only to us?” he asked, needing to confirm, the words scraping.

Rin nodded immediately. Unhesitating. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Family is different,” he mumbled, voice thick, fingers twisting at the hem of his practice jersey. “You’re different.”

Oh.

Oh.

Sae swallowed, mouth dry.

Because now that he looked, really looked, Rin was shaking just a little, all that leftover adrenaline burning itself out in tears he hadn’t let fall on the field. That anger, that fight—it hadn’t been fake. It was Rin. But so was this. This pathetic, sniffling, apologizing kid who clung to him like a lifeline.

Sae exhaled slowly, chest tight.

He felt that terrible, complicated warmth that always came when Rin needed him.

“C’mon,” he mumbled finally, voice softer than he meant. He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Let’s clean you up before Mom sees that nose. You look gross.”

Rin sniffled, but a tiny ghost of a smile flickered.

And Sae felt something loosen in his ribs.

Because yeah. This was his little brother. All of him.

Dinner was late because Mom had come home late, complaining about traffic in that irritated, worn-out voice that meant they should tread carefully. Sae set out the bowls without being asked, dropping chopsticks in the usual spots, listening to the rustle of Rin slumping at the table with a sigh like he’d been dying all day. 

Dad was at the sink washing his hands in slow, deliberate movements. 

For a few minutes it was just the familiar noises of their home of fridge humming, tap running, Mom rummaging for pickles in the door shelf.

Then Mom turned. She saw Rin’s nose.

It wasn’t as bad as before—still puffy, purpling at the bridge where he’d been clocked. Sae had pressed a cold can to it earlier, ignoring Rin’s whines, making sure the swelling went down. But in the bright kitchen light it was obvious.

Mom froze halfway to the table. Her eyes narrowed immediately, voice whipping like a switch. “What happened to your face?”

Rin flinched. Sae didn’t. He’d been expecting it.

Rin’s voice went tinny and small. “...football.”

“That’s not ‘football’,” Mom snapped, setting the jar down too hard, the lid rattling. She came over in quick steps, one hand shooting out to grab Rin’s chin and turn his face so she could see the damage. “That’s fighting. Again? ”

Rin’s shoulders hunched, mouth wobbled. “...Wasn’t my fault.”

Sae sat down, chopsticks in hand, watching quietly.

Mom’s mouth twisted. For a second she looked ready to unleash one of those full-volume tirades Sae remembered from when they were younger, the kind that made Rin cry and Sae go stone-faced. But she didn’t. Instead her eyes shuttered, and she let go of Rin’s chin, exhaling hard through her nose.

“Always getting into things,” she muttered. But there was something softer in the way she tucked a finger under Rin’s bangs to push them aside, inspecting the bruise. Her voice lowered, not kind exactly, but tired, rough around the edges. “You’re going to make me go gray before I’m fifty, you know that?”

Rin sniffed. “...Sorry.”

Mom clicked her tongue, pulling away. She wiped her hand on her apron like she was annoyed at herself for even touching him gently. “Just don’t do it again. And eat.”

Sae watched it all.

He noticed things now that he hadn’t when he was younger. How Mom’s hair had a couple white strands that hadn’t been there before. How the lines at her mouth had deepened. How her voice didn’t rise as much these days even when she was angry, how the scolding had turned into something heavier, more resigned.

Maybe she was mellowing with age. Maybe work was less insane. Sae didn’t really know. But he noticed it.

Dad sat down at the head of the table without a word, pouring tea. Sae waited until he nodded before starting to eat. Rin still sniffled a little but dug in quickly.

The conversation limped along in small talk. School. Football. Mom reminding Sae to watch out for Rin. Dad grunting in assent. Sae chewed in silence, glancing at his brother’s bruised nose, watching him stuff rice in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in a week.

He didn’t say anything. But he felt that familiar, restless responsibility tighten in his chest.

Yeah. Rin was a pain. Always would be. But that was the job. That was what being his brother meant.

And as Rin leaned forward to reach the pickles, mumbling “thanks” around a mouthful of rice when Sae shoved them closer, Sae felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward before he forced it back down.

It was annoying.

But it was theirs.

Dinner settled into that tentative quiet that always came after a scolding. 

Rin’s sniffles had stopped but he kept his eyes down, poking at pickled radish and rice. Dad sipped tea slowly, steam curling up into his face, eyes half-lidded with that unreadable look Sae always felt both annoyed and reassured by.

Mom sat down last, tired. She made a sound in her throat, like she was going to say something sharp, then didn’t. Instead she served herself in small scoops, rice and miso soup and a bit of simmered pumpkin. Sae watched her for a moment. Noticed the way her chopsticks trembled for just a second when she picked up the first bite.

It wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion.

He knew that look. He’d seen it more since she’d started working full-time again.

When Dad finally spoke, it was in that calm, low voice he used when he meant every word. “Your mother works hard for this house.”

Rin didn’t look up. He just froze, hand mid-air with his chopsticks. Sae saw his shoulders tense.

Mom made a dismissive sound. “Don’t lecture them about that. They’re kids.”

But Dad shook his head once. “No. They’re old enough.” He looked at Sae. Then at Rin. “Your mom doesn’t do it for herself. She does it for you two.”

Sae didn’t move. He just listened, eyes locked on his dad’s face.

Dad continued, still calm, but there was a heat under it that meant it was important. “You think she likes coming home late? Missing your matches? Missing dinner? You think she enjoys yelling?”

Mom clicked her tongue but didn’t interrupt. Sae noticed her fingers curled tight around her chopsticks.

Dad’s eyes softened a little, but his voice didn’t waver. “She works because she wants you both to have things she didn’t. She yells because she’s scared. That you’ll get hurt. That she’ll fail you.”

Silence.

Sae felt something lodge in his throat. He looked down at his bowl.

He remembered her tonight. How she’d snapped at Rin for the bruise, but how her fingers had been gentle pushing his bangs aside. How she’d muttered about going gray, like she was trying not to cry herself.

Rin finally moved. His voice was small, thin.

“...Sorry, Mom.”

She flinched. Sae didn’t think anyone else noticed it but him. She looked away, blinking hard, mouth pressed in that line she got when she was trying not to let anyone see anything.

Sae swallowed. His rice tasted like ash in his mouth. He put his chopsticks down.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, voice rough. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

Mom let out a breath that shook just a little. “...Eat your food before it gets cold.” But it wasn’t angry. Dad exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. He leaned back, rolling his tea cup between his palms.

Then, out of nowhere, Rin sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, voice cracking embarrassingly, “I’ll be good. I’ll be good for you, Mom.”

Mom’s mouth wobbled. She didn’t yell at him for being snotty. 

She just sighed. “You’re already good, idiot.”

Sae didn’t say anything at first. He felt his chest hurt in a weird, squeezed way he didn’t know what to do with. He reached across the table and flicked Rin on the forehead.

Rin squeaked.

“Don’t promise stupid things you can’t do,” Sae muttered. But he felt his voice shake.

Rin glared at him, lip trembling. “Then you promise too!”

Sae met his eyes. Saw the red rim around them. The wet shine.

Dad cleared his throat. Sae looked at him. Dad just gave him one, slow nod. Like he was telling him: go on. Sae’s jaw tightened. He breathed in. “...Fine,” he muttered. He felt ridiculous, saying it out loud. But he did it anyway. “I’ll be good for mom too.”

Rin’s face split into this ridiculous, watery smile.

Mom wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand and made a sound like she was annoyed, even though she was the one crying now.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she croaked.

But she didn’t sound angry at all.

Dad sipped his tea, his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin.

The silence after wasn’t heavy.

It felt… okay.

Sae stabbed at his rice, cleared his throat. Rin was still sniffling. Mom blew her nose into a napkin and refused to look at any of them.

Then Rin, voice high and uncertain, asked, “Nii-chan… football or Mom, which one comes first?”

Sae didn’t even hesitate.

“Mom.”

Rin beamed, eyes still shiny. Sae scowled at him but didn’t take it back.

Dad nodded once like he approved. Mom just muttered something about idiots and wiped her eyes again. And Sae felt, for a moment, that it wasn’t so hard to know exactly what he wanted to fight for.

Chapter Text

Sae woke up at ungodly hours.

Or so he thought—until his eyes caught the blinking red digits on the bedside clock: 11:00 PM. Hardly midnight, let alone anything truly scandalous. He sighed and rolled onto his back, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally offended him.

There was one specific dish that kept flying through his brain no matter how he forced himself to sleep. Chicken dumplings. Soft wrappers, juicy filling, the shape just right if you pleated it carefully. He swore he wasn’t even hungry. It wasn’t that. It was… habit? Obsession? Hobby? He didn’t want to interrogate it too closely.

But it wouldn’t go away.

So eventually Sae let out a low growl of frustration, shoved his blankets aside, and swung his feet to the floor. The air was cold, the wood biting at his soles. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, willing himself alert. If he was going to do this, he’d do it properly.

He padded down the hall, as quiet as he could manage. Passed Rin’s door—slightly ajar, of course. That idiot couldn’t close it all the way if his life depended on it. He peered in on reflex, saw the familiar mop of dark green hair half-buried in a pillow, mouth slack, an actual line of drool threatening to hit the sheets. Sae rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out.

But he smiled.

Just for a second.

Then he turned and crept downstairs toward the kitchen.

He’d already checked earlier that evening. Subconsciously he must’ve known this was going to happen. Chicken? In the fridge, thawed. Napa cabbage? Waiting on the counter. Garlic and ginger? Ready. Wrappers? Store-bought, but the good kind.

He turned on the light and squinted, letting his eyes adjust. The kitchen was blessedly silent. No parents. No Rin whining about late-night snacks. Just him and the gleam of metal bowls.

Sae let out a low, content exhale.

First of all, Sae washed his hands thoroughly, almost ritualistically, as if the act alone would clear his buzzing mind. The water was icy but he let it run over his wrists longer than needed. He wiped them briskly on the kitchen towel, eyeing the small mountain of ingredients he’d lined up with stubborn precision hours before; minced chicken, napa cabbage, green onion, a thumb of ginger he’d already peeled. Prepped but not chopped. It made sense now, in this too-quiet kitchen at almost midnight.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders.

The knife was familiar weight in his hand. He cut in a deliberate rhythm, ginger first, so fine it was nearly paste. Then green onion, bright and biting in the air, making his eyes sting—not that he’d admit it. He swept everything off the board with the side of the blade, scraping into the bowl. Chicken came next, cool and tacky under his fingers as he folded in the seasoning. A drizzle of soy sauce, a dash of sesame oil, white pepper. He mixed it with bare hands, squishing it together, feeling it between his fingers. He didn’t really like this part, but he didn’t hate it either.

It was quiet.

He liked that.

Or he told himself he did.

Outside the window, the world was dark. No cars. No voices. Even the hum of the fridge seemed too loud. He shaped the dumpling filling into rough balls on a plate, wiping his hands again, then laying out the thin, store-bought wrappers on the counter like little moons.

He fell into a rhythm. Wet edge. Scoop. Fold. Pleat. Press.

He was neat about it. He always was.

Mom used to complain he didn’t help in the kitchen. Dad would correct her gently saying he doesn’t help when you’re here. When it was just him and Rin—like it had been so many times—he’d cooked plenty. Burned things, ruined things, sure, but he’d kept Rin fed.

It wasn’t about liking it.

It was about not failing.

He lined the finished dumplings on a tray like soldiers, each one tight, sealed, uniform.

Halfway through he heard the floorboard creak. He didn’t look up immediately. The sound was familiar. Small feet, slow shuffle.

He dipped his finger in the little bowl of water, smoothed the edge of the next wrapper, and only when he’d pleated it shut did he glance toward the doorway.

Rin stood there in the gloom, hair an unbrushed mess around his face, owl plush clamped in one arm like a shield. His eyes were half-lidded, but the light from the kitchen gave them an eerie gleam.

Sae didn’t say anything at first. He just set down the dumpling.

Rin sniffed, voice hoarse with sleep.

“...You’re cooking?”

Sae flicked water from his fingers, brow arched. “Brilliant deduction.”

Rin trudged closer, the owl flopping at his side. He yawned so hard his eyes watered, then scrubbed at them with the plush’s wing. He didn’t sit. Just hovered near the counter, blinking blearily. Sae went back to folding. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said without looking up.

Rin shrugged, voice a mumble. “Couldn’t.”

Sae pressed a dumpling shut harder than necessary.

“Scary dream?” he guessed, because he knew this kid.

His little brother didn’t answer. Just swallowed and hugged the owl tighter.

Sae sighed. He rinsed his fingers, wiped them dry, and turned fully to face him.

“Hungry?”

Rin hesitated. Then nodded, small.

Sae gestured at the tray. “These’ll take a minute. Sit down.”

He watched Rin clamber onto the kitchen stool, legs swinging. Sae set the pot to boil, steam curling up immediately, and dropped a few dumplings in, watching them sink, stir, rise, spin gently in the bubbling water.

Rin yawned again, head bobbing.

Sae found himself talking, voice lower, as if admitting it to the empty kitchen instead of to Rin.

“Couldn’t sleep either.”

Rin blinked at him.

Sae didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

They sat in the kitchen like that for a while—the water boiling, the smell of ginger and sesame rising. Sae scooped the first batch onto a plate, steam billowing, and set it in front of Rin with a little dish of dipping sauce.

Rin’s eyes lit up, even half-asleep. He dug in immediately, careless about the heat, hissing when he burned his tongue, whining but refusing to slow down.

Sae rolled his eyes but let the corner of his mouth twitch up.

He made a second batch.

And a third.

By the time they finished, the clock had pushed past midnight. Rin was nodding over his empty plate, blinking so slowly it was comical.

Sae wiped his hands one last time and jerked his head. “Come on.”

Rin slid off the stool, owl in a death grip. Sae didn’t grab his hand but he walked slow, let Rin follow on unsteady feet all the way upstairs.

He paused at Rin’s bedroom door. Looked at the gap of dark inside.

Rin hovered. Didn’t move to go in.

Sae sighed.

“Just come on.”

He turned to his own room without waiting. He didn’t check to see if Rin followed. But he knew.

Minutes later he lay in his too-big bed with Rin squashed in beside him, owl plush crammed between them, Rin’s forehead tucked against his shoulder. Sae closed his eyes and finally, finally felt sleep drag at him.

The kitchen was a mess.

But they’d clean it in the morning.

The next morning, Sae woke early while it was still gray outside. 

He blinked hard against the sleep in his eyes, groaning at the memory of last night’s late cooking session. He could still smell sesame oil and dough in the air if he inhaled. He sat up, listening. Rin was a lump under the blanket, hair sticking up in every direction, mouth slightly open, breathing the deep, damp breath of heavy sleep. Sae watched for a second, then sighed and slipped off the bed carefully so he wouldn’t wake him.

Downstairs, the kitchen was a wreck. Dumpling skins hardened and stuck to the counter, little bowls crusted with dipping sauce. The pot was cloudy with starchy water. Sae grimaced, rolling up the sleeves of his thin T-shirt.

He cleaned it all methodically, not because he liked cleaning but because he didn’t want Mom to see and start yelling. The thought alone was enough motivation. He scraped, washed, wiped, dried everything with military precision until the counters gleamed.

When he was done, he stood in the silent, clean kitchen, took a breath, and yawned so wide his jaw cracked.

It was too early for anything. It was a holiday. No practice. No homework due.

So Sae dragged himself back upstairs, climbed into bed, and let the silence swallow him.

He only woke again when someone knocked on the door, and Dad’s voice cut through the fog of sleep.

“Sae. We’re heading out.”

He blinked at them from bed, groggy, hair flat on one side. Dad was already in shoes, Mom adjusting her bag strap.

“Where?” Sae croaked.

Dad just raised an eyebrow. “Work. Look after your brother.”

Sae scowled but didn’t argue. He muttered something like “Yeah, yeah,” which Dad ignored.

Mom only added in her too-brisk way, “Lunch is in the fridge. Don’t let him wreck the place.” Then they were gone.

Sae lay there another minute in absolute stubbornness before he finally shoved himself out of bed with a groan. He padded down the hall, scratching the back of his head, and forced himself down the stairs.

He stopped short at the kitchen doorway. The smell hit him first—bright, sour-sweet, a rush of citrus and banana, something green. The blender was humming in short, practiced bursts. Rin stood on a step-stool at the counter. Hair a mess, shirt a little too big, eyes squinting with ferocious concentration. He was hunched over the blender controls, one hand steady on the jug’s lid, the other hitting the button in precise little taps. Next to him, a battered notebook was open, lined in Rin’s clumsy but determined handwriting.

Sae leaned on the doorframe, arms folded.

Of course. The juice thing.

It had been a year now since their mother came home with the news from the doctor. Sae remembered that conversation only in flashes—Mom’s serious face, Dad’s silence, the word “autism” hanging like fog.

It didn’t change much for him. Rin was still Rin.

But it did explain certain things.

Like why he obsessed over details. Why he hated breaking routine. Why he’d get overwhelmed or shut down if something felt wrong .

And why, now, Rin had this new habit that no one dared interrupt. Fruit juice experiments.

Every morning if he could.

He had a method. He tested combinations. Wrote notes about taste, color, thickness, fruit ratios. The kitchen was often a sticky mess of pulp and peel, but Sae had given up complaining.

If it kept Rin happy. Focused. Calm.

He’d let the kid turn the entire fridge into a juice lab if he wanted. So he didn’t say anything, just watched as Rin measured out cut banana slices with ridiculous precision, adding them to a swirl of mango-orange pulp.

Rin noticed him eventually, big green eyes blinking. His face broke into a grin, lighting up like it always did for Sae in a way it didn’t for anyone else.

“Nii-chan!”

Sae raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

Rin beamed wider, teeth showing, owl-plush nowhere in sight for once.

“Almost! Want to taste? Just let me write it out first...”

He didn’t even wait for permission, grabbing his pen with frantic excitement and scribbling something in the notebook, tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Sae sighed but didn’t move.

He watched.

He watched Rin’s shoulders relax as he wrote, as the routine soothed him. He watched his brother mumble ingredient ratios under his breath, nodding seriously to himself.

Sae didn’t interrupt.

Because he knew—Rin hated being thrown off his rhythm. Hated if someone messed with his plan. He wouldn’t yell or throw a tantrum like other kids; he’d just… withdraw. Go stiff and silent. Let that simmer.

So Sae just leaned there, silent sentinel at the kitchen door, arms folded.

He’d let him finish.

Rin was weird, sure. But he was their weird.

And Sae was used to it.

Sae let Rin finish writing in his notebook—he always insisted on logging every “recipe,” even if it was as simple as banana and milk. Finally, Rin snapped the book shut and looked up expectantly.

“Try it!”

Sae grunted and walked over, taking the offered glass. He sniffed it first, making a face deliberately to annoy Rin, then took a sip. It was… thick. Very thick. Too much banana. Not enough acidity to balance it. He lowered the glass and exhaled. “It’s… really banana-y.”

Rin watched him, eyebrows scrunching. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine.” Sae handed it back. “But it’s like drinking mashed banana.”

Rin squinted, offended for about half a second. Then he just shrugged, all cheerful. “I like it.” He finished the rest in two big gulps, eyes shining with satisfaction.

Sae snorted. “Of course you do.” He let the moment settle, watching Rin wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go change,” Sae said after a minute, pushing off the counter. “We’re going to practice.”

Rin perked up instantly, the sticky juice mess forgotten. He clambered off the stool and ran upstairs, yelling “OKAY!” at top volume.

Sae cleaned up the last of the pulp with a damp rag, listening to the pounding of little feet overhead.

He shook his head a little, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.

The sun was out by the time they left the house, Sae with his bag slung across one shoulder, Rin bouncing along next to him. He always bounced, like walking was too slow.

They passed familiar houses, the quiet road dappled with the green of early summer.

Sae walked with his usual unhurried stride, glancing down every so often to make sure Rin wasn’t veering into the street. He thought about it sometimes—how his brother was special . That word felt weird on his tongue. He never said it out loud.

The doctor visit had been over a year ago, and their parents didn’t bring it up much anymore. Mom had been matter-of-fact about it. Dad had been quiet.

For Sae it changed almost nothing.

Rin was still the same kid who got lost at the zoo because he wandered off. The same one who drooled on his shoulder if he fell asleep on him. The same who memorized entire TV openings and sang them off-key while cleaning.

Just... extra .

More particular. More stubborn.

And weird sometimes. Sae could admit that in his head. Weird in ways he didn’t always get.

Like now.

They were crossing the little footpath shortcut behind the park. To the left was that old house—two stories of cracked wood and grime, with a tangle of dead wisteria up the wall. Kids in their neighborhood whispered about it being haunted. Sae didn’t buy that crap. He just ignored it.

But Rin slowed down.

Sae walked another step before realizing his brother wasn’t beside him.

He turned, exasperated already.

“Rin.”

Rin was staring at the house. Hard.

His fingers twitched at his side, the juice-stained notebook under his arm like a shield. His mouth moved once, soundlessly. Then again, a broken mumble.

Sae squinted.

“Oi.”

No reaction.

He walked back, grabbed Rin’s shoulder gently. “What’s wrong?”

Rin jerked at the touch, blinking up at him. His mouth was still moving, mumbling something too soft to catch.

Sae frowned. He shook Rin a little—not hard, just enough. “Stop. Snap out of it.”

Rin blinked again, this time awareness seeping in. His eyes refocused, green and glassy.

“Nii-chan?”

“Don’t stand there like an idiot,” Sae muttered.

Rin’s mouth wobbled, like he wanted to argue. But instead he swallowed hard.

“Sorry.”

Sae sighed and looked at the house. It was just old. Crumbling. Empty.

“Don’t pay attention to dumb stuff. Come on.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was unsettled.

Because Rin’s mumbling hadn’t sounded like nonsense. It had sounded deliberate. Words.

But not to Sae.

Like he was answering someone .

Sae didn’t want to think about that.

He just took Rin’s wrist and tugged him gently forward.

“Let’s go. Practice won’t wait.”

Rin followed, steps a little off-beat, clutching his notebook tight.

Sae kept glancing back once or twice as they left that old house behind, not saying anything.

He wouldn’t ask.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

Because there were things about Rin even he didn’t get.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Practice ended with sweat-soaked shirts and muddy sneakers. 

Sae tossed his ball under one arm, the other wiping his brow as Rin trotted beside him—hands still sticky from whatever grass juice and dirt combo he managed to pick up. The walk back was quiet, but Sae’s mind wasn’t. It circled back to earlier: the way Rin stared at that abandoned house, his gaze locked like a string pulled tight. Then the murmuring—soft, indecipherable, but unmistakably something .

Sae glanced sideways. Rin now hummed absently, half-swinging his arms, as if none of that had happened.

Should he ask?

Would Rin even know what to say?

He bit the inside of his cheek. “Hey, Rin,” he began, but the words stalled halfway up his throat. What would he even ask? Why do you look at creepy houses like you can hear ghosts? He scoffed at himself. That’s just dumb.

The curb drew near, and out of habit, he reached out. Their fingers met briefly—Rin didn’t resist—and Sae held his little brother’s hand as they approached the intersection. The light was green, but Sae always waited for the red signal and the beep, just like Mom taught them.

He glanced down at their joined hands. A decade old, and Rin was already up to his nose. Still soft-spoken, still clumsy, still scribbling in that fruit journal of his—but taller. Taller and growing.

"You're gonna pass me one day," Sae muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Tch. No way I’m letting that happen.”

Rin didn’t hear him, too focused on the traffic light blinking red. They stepped onto the road, cars stopping, and halfway through, Sae allowed himself to feel—content, almost.

But then—

A crack tore the air apart.
Followed by a slam .
Then the screech of tires.
Metal against metal.
And then—

Blood.

It hit Sae all at once. The image—the crushed bicycle, its twisted frame barely recognizable beneath the front grill of the car. A man, thrown from the seat, now sprawled unnaturally on the asphalt. Blood. It streaked along the road in crimson trails. Soaking into the gutter. Still leaking.

The world narrowed.

Noises drowned.

Voices turned to ringing.

Something stabbed through Sae’s chest—panic, nausea, fear . The back of his neck broke into cold sweat. His legs stiffened. His breath caught in his throat and stayed there, trapped like something trying to crawl up but never escaping.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t blink.

Blood.

Blood.

His vision swayed. His hands—were they shaking?

And then—

A small tug.

His fingers curled around something— someone .

Rin.

Rin’s hand was still holding his. Not pulling, not panicking, just there. Grounding. Small. Warm.

Sae swallowed. He forced himself to blink. To look down. Rin hadn’t let go. His expression was unreadable, but his brows were slightly furrowed—worried, yes, but not about the blood. About him . He sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt his ribs. He blinked again, harder this time, and turned Rin gently by the shoulders. “Don’t look,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Just walk.”

He meant to follow right after. He really did.

But the second Rin turned, Sae’s knees buckled.

The sidewalk hit him hard.

It didn’t even register at first—just the feeling of everything dropping . Like the whole world had tilted and shoved him straight down. His hands were shaking. No, everything was shaking. He could hear something— a siren? Screams? His own heart? it was too loud. Too much.

The blood.

It was everywhere . Spilling from the man’s body like something alive, creeping over the pavement, staining the white lines of the street. A sickly shine under the sunlight. And now— now some of it was near him . Tainting the edge of his shoes. His knees. He couldn’t tell.

His chest clenched so violently he thought something inside had snapped.

He tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come.
There was no air. No space. Just blood .
It coated his memory. It painted over everything. His throat burned as nausea surged high and fast, crawling up his spine and clawing into his chest.

He could feel the sweat breaking across his skin, cold and prickling.
He could feel the panic rising like a wave, dragging him under.
He could feel nothing and everything at once.

His vision blurred—edges darkening, sounds warping. He thought he heard someone call his name. Maybe more than once.

But it was drowned out by the crushing noise in his ears. Like a scream folded in on itself.

And then—

“Nii-.”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined it.
His head felt too light, too far. His limbs weren’t listening anymore.

“Nii-chan!.”

That voice. Small. Close. Real.
Rin.

He wanted to respond, but all he could do was sit there—knees on the concrete, fingers clawed weakly at his chest as if he could tear the fear out.

Then the world tilted again, this time into darkness.

Everything went black.

White.

The first thing Sae registered was the sharp whiteness above him—a ceiling so still, so sterile, it immediately told him he wasn’t home. The lights hummed faintly. The air was too clean. There was no scent of sweat from his bed covers, no distant sound of Rin’s door creaking open like it always did in the middle of the night.

Just white. And silence.

His chest felt heavy, like someone had stacked bricks on it. 

He blinked slowly, once, twice, and only then realized that his fingers were trembling slightly against the sheets. Something in his body still hadn’t caught up with the calmness of the room. Panic, even if faded, had left its claws deep.

Then he heard breathing. Soft, even, close—too close.

He turned his head and stopped.

Rin.

There—curled up like a cat beside his legs, one small arm draped carelessly across Sae’s blanket, cheek pressed to the bed’s edge. His hair was messy, cowlicks jutting out at odd angles. His lashes were damp, and his eyes—rimmed red. Puffy. The kind of redness that didn’t come from yawns or sleep but from crying. Hard.

And Sae’s blanket… had small wrinkles where Rin must’ve gripped it tightly, probably refusing to let go.

Sae froze. A strange ache bloomed in his chest, quiet but overwhelming.

Why was Rin—?

He shifted slightly, and the blanket rustled. Rin stirred, a faint twitch of his fingers, a tiny furrow of his brow, but he didn’t wake. Thank god.

Sae held his breath, then exhaled slowly and pushed himself up, carefully, his muscles sore in unfamiliar places. He winced—his back ached, his chest was tight, but nothing unbearable. The moment he sat upright, a shadow stirred to his left.

“Don’t move too fast, Sae.”

His mother. Sitting right there on a visitor chair, arms folded over her lap, her shoulders visibly tense. Her voice had that rare softness to it—the one she only used when someone was sick or scared. Her eyes were glued to him, and she looked as if she hadn’t blinked in hours.

“Mom,” he rasped, throat dry.

She was beside him in an instant. “You scared me. Do you know how scared I was? You fainted right in front of Rin! And there was blood—there was so much blood on the road, and then you—you collapsed—”

Her voice cracked, and she covered her mouth.

Sae looked away, guilt wrapping around his ribs like a vice. That moment flashed again—the blood, the chaos, the taste of metal in his mouth, the terrifying weightlessness before the world disappeared.

“...Is he okay?” he asked, nodding faintly toward Rin.

“He wouldn’t leave your side,” she whispered. “They wanted to take him to another room, but he refused. Threw a fit. We didn’t know what else to do. So we let him stay.”

Sae’s eyes dropped to Rin again. His little brother, tough and stubborn, had curled himself into a space where he could hold on to Sae’s blanket. Like that tether was the only thing that would keep him grounded.

The boy who never cried—not in front of others, not even when he got hit during practice—had cried for him.

He’d seen the blood. He’d seen Sae collapse. And he stayed anyway.

Sae reached out carefully and brushed his fingers through Rin’s bangs, then let them rest there.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked softly.

“Outside. Talking to the doctor. He didn’t want to leave, but we thought you’d wake up soon. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

Sae nodded faintly, leaning his head back against the pillow. His heartbeat was still uneven. But Rin was here. He was warm. Breathing. Safe.

That was enough for now.

But somewhere in the silence, a quiet, terrifying thought crept in, uninvited.

What if next time, it’s Rin who ends up covered in blood? What if next time… I’m not fast enough?

Sae closed his eyes.

He needed to be stronger.

Not just on the field.

Everywhere.

The hospital was behind them now and home felt quieter than usual.

Their mother had fussed over them both the moment they stepped inside, placing warm soup on the table and blankets on the couch, even though it was barely chilly. Their father kept pacing nearby, hovering without saying much. But eventually, as the sky dimmed and their parents stepped out to the kitchen, the house finally grew still.

Rin sat cross-legged at the foot of Sae’s bed, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. His face was blank, but his eyes had that narrowed look he always wore when he was trying to figure something out.

Sae leaned back against the headboard. The pillows were stacked behind him, but none of it eased the tightness in his chest. Rin hadn't said a word to him since they got home. Not really.

Until now.

“...Nii-chan,” Rin spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “Mom didn’t let me listen when the doctor talked to you.”

Sae glanced at him, already knowing where this was going.

“She made me wait outside,” Rin added. “Said I was too young. But I’m ten, not five.”

Sae didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Rin could feel it.

“So... what happened?” Rin asked. “Why did you faint? You were shaking. You looked really….  scared.”

He let out a slow breath. The memory of lying there—cold, frozen, helpless—came back sharp and uninvited. His gaze dropped to his lap, where his fingers were tangled loosely in the blanket. And then slowly…“I have a phobia,” he said, his voice low. “Of blood.”

Rin’s expression barely shifted, but his brows drew together. “...Like, for real?”

He nodded once. “The doctor said it’s called blood phobia. I’ve had it for a while.”

His little brother opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Is that why you fainted?”

Sae nodded again.

A silence passed between them. Not heavy—just quiet. Rin’s voice came softer, almost a whisper. “But... why didn’t you.. Or anyone tell me?”

Sae’s fingers tightened. He didn’t look up. “Because I asked them not to,” he said. “When I first got diagnosed... I made Mom and Dad promise not to tell you.”

“Why?” Rin asked, his tone almost accusing, but more hurt than angry.

Sae looked at him now. There was guilt behind his eyes, buried deep, but there. “Because I didn’t want you to know,” he said. “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

Rin frowned. “That’s dumb.”

Sae almost smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe. But I meant it.”

Rin stared at him for a moment. “...So you’re scared of blood? Just seeing it makes you panic?”

“Yeah,” Sae admitted. “It doesn’t matter if it’s mine or someone else’s.”

Rin lowered his gaze. “Even... when it’s me?”

Sae didn’t respond.

Because yes. Especially when it’s you.
But he couldn’t say that.

“I don’t want to tell you everything yet,” he said instead. “Not about... how it started.”

Rin stayed quiet for a long moment, staring down at the blanket. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shifted closer, crawling up to sit beside his brother properly. “You don’t have to,” Rin said. “But... I wanna know one day. When you’re ready.”

Sae looked at him—really looked—and his chest tightened. Rin’s face was still a little puffy from crying earlier, but there was a quiet strength in his eyes that didn’t match his age. He was ten, but already saying things like that. Sae reached out and ruffled his hair. “Thanks, Rin.”

Rin frowned, swatted his hand away. “Stop doing that.”

Sae chuckled faintly, finally relaxing a little against the pillows.

A pause.

“...Nii-chan?”

“Mm?”

“I’m still mad you didn’t tell me,” Rin said, eyes narrowed. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Sae exhaled slowly. “Me too.”

“...Can I stay here tonight?”

Sae shifted over on the bed, lifting a corner of the blanket. “Obviously.”

Rin didn’t even try to hide the tiny smile before sliding under the covers.
And when the lights dimmed, and the room fell quiet again, they stayed that way—together.

The next morning, Rin forced Sae to walk with him to their grandmother’s house—their father’s mother, who lived just a twenty-minute walk from town. The sun was soft and kind, the streets quiet. Still, Sae had dragged his feet the entire way.

“She’s gonna ask questions,” Sae muttered as they passed the small shrines by the road, the ones old people said kept spirits calm. “You know what kind of stuff Grandma says.”

“I know,” Rin said, walking ahead with his hands behind his back. “But I said we’re going to visit Pocchi. So that’s what we’re doing.”

Sae sighed. Rin didn’t slow down.

Their grandmother had always been a bit strange. Kind, sure, but odd. She lived alone in an old house at the edge of the village, surrounded by towering trees and moss-covered stones. Some kids said she could see spirits. Others said she talked to the wind. Sae never really believed it—but he also didn’t spend enough time around her to prove otherwise. Rin didn’t seem to care. He loved her stories. Loved the dog even more.

Pocchi barked the moment they reached the gate, claws scraping the wooden floor of the porch. The old shiba inu had aged, but his eyes were still bright, tail still curled proudly.

“Pocchi!!” Rin beamed, dropping into a crouch. The dog lunged into his arms like he’d been waiting forever.

Sae stood at the gate, watching the chaos. Rin was already laughing, Pocchi licking his cheeks with happy whines, tail wagging like a storm. They’d found Pocchi when he was just a puppy, dumped in a box behind the alley near their elementary school. Rin had cried the whole way back. He was five then. Sae, just seven.

He remembered the conversation clearly—Rin saying, "We can’t leave him, nii-chan. He’s cold. He’s crying. Just like me."

Sae hadn’t asked what he meant by that.

They knew Mom wouldn’t let them keep the puppy. Too much trouble, too much mess. So they brought him here. Luckily, Grandma hadn’t even blinked. She simply said, “He’s got a loud heart. I like that.” And that was that.

Since then, Pocchi had become Rin’s first real friend. Sae used to think that was just something Rin said for fun—but now, watching how the dog responded to him, Sae understood it better. Rin buried his face in Pocchi’s fur, and the old dog stayed still, like he understood that today wasn’t really about a visit. It was about comfort.

Sae sat quietly on the porch steps, knees pulled close. Rin joined him eventually, Pocchi flopped down between them, head on Rin’s lap.

“Thanks for coming,” Rin said, gently scratching behind the dog’s ear.

Sae shrugged. “You dragged me.”

“You came anyway.”

“…hm.”

They sat there for a while, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and Pocchi’s soft breathing.

“You don’t like coming here, huh?” Rin asked suddenly.

Sae blinked. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Sae looked at his little brother. Ten years old, but already asking questions that made him pause. “I just… don’t know what to say sometimes. Grandma talks about stuff I don’t get.”

Rin smirked. “She says you have a heavy soul.”

“I do not.”

“You totally do.”

Sae nudged him lightly with his knee. “Tch. What about you then?”

“She says I have too much light in me. That I’ll attract shadows.”

“…That’s worse.”

Rin laughed. Pocchi barked once, almost like he was agreeing.

And despite everything—yesterday’s blackout, the panic, the sterile white hospital room—Sae felt something loosen in his chest. The sharp edge of fear dulled slightly. Maybe Rin was right. Maybe seeing Pocchi did help.

Or maybe it wasn’t the dog at all. Maybe it was just Rin—quietly pulling him forward without making a fuss, grounding him without pushing too hard. Even now, Sae knew Rin had come here for him, not just to see Pocchi. He wouldn’t say it. But Sae knew.

“…Thanks,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

Rin looked at him, surprised. “For what?”

Sae reached down, petting Pocchi’s back. “Just… for bringing me here.”

Rin smiled. “Well, you’re my nii-chan. If you fall apart, who else do I follow?”

Sae paused, throat catching, but he didn’t answer. Just scratched Pocchi’s fur and let the silence say the rest.

“Pocchi missed you,” Rin said between giggles as the dog licked his face. “You too, probably.”

“Probably,” Sae muttered, but his lips twitched faintly.

Their grandma appeared from inside the house, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked exactly as he remembered—long gray hair braided down her back, sharp eyes that always felt like they saw too much, and a crooked smile that made her look like she knew all the village gossip before it even happened.

“Well, well,” she said. “Didn’t expect you, Sae. Rin said you needed some cheering up. Though I think he just missed Pocchi.”

Sae rolled his eyes. “Figured.”

“Come in. I just made some dango.”

Inside, the house smelled like old wood and herbs. Sae settled into the tatami mat, letting the quiet warmth of the place seep into his bones. Pocchi had flopped onto Rin’s lap like a warm pillow, occasionally looking over at Sae with a huff, as if to say, I know who my favorite is.

“He’s really more your dog,” Sae said, watching Rin pet Pocchi with practiced fingers.

Rin smiled faintly. “He’s both of ours. You were the one who carried him the whole way when we found him.”

“That’s because you cried so hard Mom would’ve heard from the house,” Sae muttered, but his voice was softer than usual.

“She still didn’t let us keep him.”

“Grandma did.”

“Yeah.” Rin looked over at him, more serious now. “She said Pocchi’s got a spirit. That he brings peace.”

Sae snorted lightly. “She says everything has a spirit.”

“She also said you have a spirit that gets too loud sometimes,” Rin said with a straight face.

Sae blinked. “...Did she now?”

Rin shrugged, clearly enjoying this. “She’s not wrong.”

For a moment, Sae was quiet, watching Pocchi’s slow breathing. The room was peaceful, grounded, nothing like the chaos from before. Then Rin asked, quiet and honest, “…Do you feel better?”

Sae blinked once. Then again. “…Yeah. I think I do.”

Rin smiled at that, not big, just enough. “I thought so,” he said, giving Pocchi one last pat. “He’s our good luck charm.”

Sae leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Maybe you’re my good luck charm.”

Rin paused. Then grinned in that ridiculous, proud way of his. “Obviously.”

From the kitchen, their grandma called, “If you two are done being dramatic, come eat while it’s still warm!”

Sae chuckled under his breath. Rin leapt to his feet, Pocchi following right behind, and Sae thought—maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe the world, as terrifying and messy as it was, still had quiet places like this.

And maybe, sometimes, a dog and a stubborn little brother were enough to keep the dark away.

The house was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic ticking of the old wooden clock on the wall and the occasional thump of Pocchi’s tail in his sleep. Rin had already passed out on the futon, one hand tangled in the shiba inu’s fur, face slack with peace Sae rarely saw anymore.

Sae sat at the edge of his own futon, arms on his knees. Watching them. Watching how the moment Pocchi was beside Rin, it was like he didn’t exist anymore.

Not that he minded. Really, he didn’t.
If Rin had someone—anyone—to lean on besides him, then that was good.
It should be good.
But somehow, a part of him still stung in that silent way it always did.

Eventually, the stuffy warmth of the old house pressed on his skin, and he stepped outside. Just for a moment. Just for air.

The night outside was cool and thick with the scent of damp earth and distant pine. A faint mist hugged the path behind the house. In the darkness, the trees at the edge of the woods stood like quiet watchers.

Sae leaned against the porch post, arms crossed, his breath faintly visible.

“…The sky is heavy tonight,” came a soft voice behind him.

He turned his head slightly. Grandma stood a little ways back in her night robe, holding a chipped ceramic cup of something that smelled like roasted barley tea.

“You believe it’s gonna rain?” he asked, not really thinking.

She hummed, stepping forward to join him. “Mm. Not quite. The sky only carries what people forget to cry about.”

Sae blinked. “…That supposed to mean something?”

Grandma smiled, her eyes distant. “Not everything that means something makes sense, boy.”

They stood in silence for a while. She handed him the cup. He took it.

“I saw your hands shaking at dinner,” she said after a beat, voice casual like she was commenting on the price of rice.

He gripped the warm cup a little tighter but didn’t respond.

“I don’t need to know what you saw. What you remember. But it’s leaking out of you, Sae. Like ink in water. People think they can hold it in, but it always stains something.”

He stared at the mist ahead, jaw tight. “…I didn’t want him to know,” he muttered.

“I know.” Her voice was soft now. “And maybe he still doesn’t. But you think hiding the wound keeps him safe?”

He looked down at his tea. “It’s not like I can explain it. Hell, I can’t even understand it. I just know it happens and I freeze, and everything just—” He cut himself off.

Grandma nodded. “The body remembers even when the mind forgets. Or refuses to remember properly. Yours remembers too much, maybe.”

He let out a short breath. “So what? You think I’m cursed or something?”

To his surprise, she laughed. Not mocking—more like a knowing, tired chuckle.

“Maybe. Maybe not. The village has always said I talk to ghosts. But I don’t. I just see things that linger. And you, child… you’ve got something lingering on your shoulders. Not ghosts. Just grief that hasn’t found its shape yet.”

Sae didn’t speak. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Eventually, she added, “Let Rin have the dog. But don’t let him carry the shadow alone.”

Sae turned toward her.

“He doesn’t have a shadow,” he said.

Grandma’s smile grew faint, almost sad,  “No. He has yours .”

The silence that followed was heavy.  Sae looked down, fingers tightening around the ceramic cup. The tea had gone lukewarm. “…I always thought you were like Dad,” he muttered, not quite looking at her.

Grandma blinked. “Mm?”

He shrugged a little. “Stoic. Sharp. Like you could gut someone with just your eyes.”

She snorted. “I could. I just choose not to anymore.”

That almost made him smile. Almost. “But,” he went on, softer, “you’re… softer than him. Somehow. And I didn’t expect that.”

She leaned her weight against the railing beside him, gaze fixed on the fog beyond the yard, “Maybe age wore my sharpest edges down,” she said. “Or maybe I always had softness. Just not everyone was meant to see it.”

Sae went quiet again. The wind rustled the bamboo chimes lightly above their heads.

“I thought I could carry everything,” he whispered eventually. “Because I was the older one. Because I was always the one who ‘understood more,’ who should ‘protect’ Rin, who should’ve known better.”

His voice cracked at the end. He didn’t bother hiding it.

“I hate blood,” he said. “It makes my skin crawl. I see it and I can’t breathe. It didn’t even make sense until later—until I realized… the blood I’m scared of… it’s not just blood . It’s Rin’s blood. It’s the thought that—” His hands shook slightly. “—what if next time it’s him? What if I can’t protect him again? What if I freeze like I did then?”

Grandma didn’t interrupt. She just listened, her gaze patient.

Sae’s voice lowered. “He doesn’t even know… I was there. When it happened. I saw it. That first time I collapsed—it wasn’t just shock. It was because… part of me thought it was him. That it could’ve been him.” His breath shuddered. “And ever since then, every time I see blood, it’s like I’m watching my brother die over and over. Even when it’s not him.”

Silence stretched again, broken only by the wind and Sae’s uneven breathing. 

“I didn’t want him to worry. I didn’t want him to think he broke me. But sometimes I feel like I’m stitched together by guilt and tape.”

He rubbed his face. “God, I sound pathetic.”

Grandma turned to him, voice calm and unwavering. “You sound like someone who's been bleeding inside for a long time.”

Sae didn’t answer.

She continued, “You were twelve, Sae. You were just a child. But they handed you a sword made of expectations and asked you to guard the whole world with it. You took it because you thought that’s what big brothers do.”

He clenched his jaw. The weight of those words pressed into his chest.

“And you’re still doing it,” she added. “Still carrying the world on your back, scared to put it down. Scared of what it means if you let someone else see your knees buckle.”

“…Yeah,” he said. His voice was nothing but breath. “Because if I break… who’s left to protect him?”

Grandma reached out and rested a weathered hand gently on his back.

“That’s the thing about love,” she said. “It was never meant to be carried alone. Even Rin’s too small hands will someday try to catch you when you fall. Let him.”

Sae bowed his head. His eyes stung. “I don’t know how to stop carrying it.”

“You don’t have to stop. Just… don’t carry it alone.”

The words hung in the night air like a soft spell. And for the first time in a long time, Sae felt something in his chest loosen.

A beat passed. Then, in a voice so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, he said, “…Thanks, Grandma.”

She patted his back twice, then slowly pulled away.

“Now finish the tea before it gets cold,” she said lightly. “I didn’t brew that barley just for the wind.”

Sae huffed a laugh, the weight on his shoulders not gone, but somehow… lighter.