#referenced bc shinjurou sucks

[crescentmoonrider]

Gift(less)

There are three things Senjurou considers to be important, defining traits about himself.

Firstly, he is pretty sure his big brother is the nicest person in the country, if not the world.

-

Kyoujurou wanted to study history in university.

He’d always talked about it, about his dream of learning more, of doing research and maybe making new discoveries himself, and of eventually teaching to people as passionate as him. He would read about the latest findings on Joumon pottery the same way people his age would read their favorite manga, and would try his best to explain it all to Senjurou, who could in truth barely follow at all.

It was bad luck, then, that Senjurou didn’t hide his bruises well enough on that fateful day. That Kyoujurou decided to take him away from Father, decided to move cities and schools, took on a job and a loan to provide for them both. Father had been a wreck, but the family money had been enough to sustain both a good life and his bad habits.

Father had cut off Kyoujurou, or maybe Kyoujurou just didn’t want to rely on someone like him anymore.

The moment he passed his final high school exams, Kyoujurou started taking special classes to teach high school students himself, all the while still working as much as he could to feed them and keep their shitty apartment with running water and electricity, and to pay off his newest loan (and how many had that been, how many more had he kept hidden from Senjurou in an attempt to protect him).

Kyoujurou didn’t have time to read anymore. He worked and worked and started teaching, and to this day he still works and works and never stops planning his new classes or grading exams.

Sometimes he’ll stare wistfully at an invitation to a conference sent by some old classmate. Then he’ll get back to work.

For the two of us, he’ll say with that heartbreakingly kind smile of his.

Because of Senjurou, they both know.

-

Secondly, Senjurou cannot deal with alcohol.

-

Father didn’t always drink, Senjurou knows.

Still, as far as he can remember, the smell of alcohol was always present, following Father from room to room, clinging to the walls and the furniture, so much that Senjurou’s head felt light at the end of the day if he didn’t leave the house for a few hours in the meantime.

When Senjurou dreams of Father, he dreams of this smell.

During his last year of middle school, he’d been invited to a friend’s house to play some video games that Senjurou had only ever heard of. One of the others, Senjurou can’t remember who it was, had taken a few small bottles from his bag, stolen from his parents’ reserve.

The group had laughed, stumbled around with the opener, joked about what the taste could be like, if adults liked the stuff so much.

Senjurou could only watch, petrified.

When the capsule was finally breached, the others cheered, and Senjurou felt bile rising up his throat at the bitter scent of beer.

He excused himself, promised he wouldn’t tell, he swore he wasn’t a killjoy but he had to go, he had to, he –

He fell into Kyoujurou’s arms the second he came home and cried, without really understanding why.

-

Finally, Senjurou can see ghosts as clearly as he sees living people.

-

One of his earliest memories is of talking to an old man from the neighborhood while waiting outside for Kyoujurou to come back from school. Senjurou was sitting near the door, playing with marbles, asking the neighbor about his wife and the garden he tended to, and if he would share plums with them again this year.

Father had come out before Kyoujurou arrived.

Senjurou was used to being barely noticed, so he had just wished Father a good trip to the convenience store, before resuming his conversation.

And then Father had grabbed his arm, raised him to his feet, angrily asking who he was talking to, and when Senjurou had answered with the neighbor’s name, Father had dragged him back inside, cursing him.

The neighbor was dead. Kyoujurou had taken Senjurou to the wake, to present their condolences. How dare – how could –

Their family was cursed. That was the only explanation, for Mother’s death, for Kyoujurou’s uselessness, for Senjurou’s…

Senjurou was a cursed child, who had brought death into their house.

When Kyoujurou finally came home, Senjurou was still crying, but he had no words to explain the cause of it.

No matter how much he tried afterwards, though, he couldn’t help but make mistakes again. Asking for directions to someone in the street, and only realizing the truth when faced with the curious looks of passerbys. Not looking as the right person at a funeral.

Kyoujurou simply smiled whenever it happened, and asked who he saw, but Father only had disgust.

Senjurou tried to be good, to look normal, even stared at the sun in hopes of losing those cursed eyes, but it was no use.

If he couldn’t change it, he had to compensate for it, then.

Senjurou walks with his head low nowadays, never looking anyone in the eyes. He rarely initiates a conversation, not with someone he isn’t completely sure is alive, especially in public. Usually, he waits for Kyoujurou or for a friend to acknowledge a new person before feeling like he is allowed to do the same.

It’s rude, he knows, but the alternative is so much more terrifying.

It’s also not foolproof.

There’s a juggler in the street, that he’s seen around a few times before. Senjurou stops to watch him, and takes the opportunity to think over his options for part-time jobs.

He wants to earn money, to help Kyoujurou, and make himself into a person who can be relied on, instead of the burden he currently is.

There isn’t a lot of variety in the job offers for high-schoolers, that’s the problem.

Working in the kitchen of some fast-food chain would be manageable, he thinks. He can cook, Kyoujurou even says his cooking is good, too, and it would only require following orders from the front. But he doesn’t know if kitchen workers are asked to talk to clients themselves from time to time, and that scares him.

If a ghost comes to ask for a hamburger, what is he supposed to do ?

An office job where he only has to interact with paperwork would be the best and surest choice, but there’s just no way he can find this while in high school.

Senjurou sighs.

The juggler is bowing after a pretty impressive trick, and Senjurou reaches to his wallet for some spare change. He doesn’t have a lot, just a few 100 yen coins, but it’s better than nothing.

“He isn’t here anymore, you know ?”

Senjurou whips around, meets the eyes of a tall man in a red suit, who stands next to him with a gentle smile on his face. No one else in the street has stopped to watch the juggler today, Senjurou realizes. Some passerbys look at him and the tall man, but never at the balls flying once more through the air.

Cold sweat slides down Senjurou’s neck. The wallet in his hand is burning through his skin.

He messed up. He messed up again, and what if the man knows Kyoujurou, what if Senjurou’s curse will reflect badly on his brother, what if –

The man’s voice is light as he simply exclaims : “So he keeps on juggling even in death, huh ? How admirable !”

Senjurou looks up.

“Ah, I didn’t introduce myself, did I ? How rude of me ! My name is Douma. Quite the pleasure to meet you… ?”

The man – Douma – produces a business card, that Senjurou is still a little too shocked to accept immediately. Too slow to present his hands, too slow to introduce himself in turn. It’s awfully rude, but Douma doesn’t seem to mind.

He smiles when Senjurou gives his name, smiles more when he asks why Douma didn’t seem surprised by Senjurou looking at nothing, or preparing to give money to a nonexistent person.

He has a friend, he says, with the same gift as Senjurou.

It’s the first time anyone has called Senjurou’s sight a gift. Father called it a curse, and Kyoujurou doesn’t call it anything, just asks what Senjurou sees when he doesn’t act normal enough.

In Douma’s mouth, the word “gift” sounds like the most wonderful thing in the world.

Senjurou sobs, then starts crying openly while Douma stands beside him and pats his back comfortingly. He wants to believe in Douma’s words, maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

Douma apologizes, feels guilty for making him cry, offers to buy him coffee, or whatever drink he wants, to make up for it. He sounds like Kyoujurou, warm and open and kind.

Senjurou accepts.