Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He hid the crying infant held in the cold arms of his mother’s corpse and baptized in the chilling blood of his own brother. Drowned it, but unlike many things in his life, this was the one thing even he could not do.

So, the infant rested there, dormant. Always watching from beyond the waves. It grew, not fed on anything substantive but on the miseries of reality that accumulated within the depths. It would wait with bated breath for the day of its freedom. And this time, when he surfaced, he would dig himself out of his own flesh then, he would baptize himself in the blood of an immortal made mortal by his own hands.

He will not cry this time. He will not even make sound. But the world will hear his declaration all the same, in the drumbeat of war.

You were all right, and I will be the proof of that, he said. So do not look away now.

If she could see him again, she wanted to reach up to him. Wanted to hold that in her hands and say, See? You’re wrong, Obito.

The sweets were warm in her hands when her brother brought them back. Another souvenir, he bought those always when he went out on an extended mission trip. Toji was all too eager to be rid of them, and they, of him. It was a spontaneous trip at the end of summer, Obito pulled away to an emergency mission alongside his underclassmen and teacher.

It was a fun trip, her sister thought. She wanted to agree but could not get over the strange feeling she had during the entire trip because of Toji. Not because of his usual mean streak, but the absence of it. The fang of his usual chaffs being blunted, as though needed elsewhere. His eyes roamed and he was tense—no one else seemed to sense it but her.

“You’re being weird,” she brought up once. He ignored her, feigned sleep. “You’re not resting, stop faking.”

One eye opened, staring her down. It was slight, the difference between his expression of ease and that of tenseness, the difference between something asleep and something with its eyes closed, listening.

“Well, I was trying to rest until someone disturbed me. What, the other two brats ditched you or something?” The dismissive tone, the usage of ‘brat’, the lazy roll of his eyes, the perfect cocktail to set off her temper—Toji, she’d come to realize, can be shrewd when he wishes to be.

She was young, then. Naïve. Bought into the act he sold almost immediately. Chest puffing outwards and a frown soon on her face. She argued with him, couldn’t recall the words other than that it strayed off topic and soon, she also strayed away from him.

The rest of the trip went well, and they were returned to Obito on the day he promised them so. He looked different from usual, tired, she didn’t think she ever saw Obito like that before other than the time he prepared for their official schooling.

“Just an unusual mission,” Obito explained when they asked.

“Hurry and go back then, don’t want you collapsing anywhere near me,” Toji rushed. She rolled her eyes at him, stuck her tongue out at his blunt and cold words. Thinking back on it, it seemed the only kind of softness he could muster in front of Obito.

“I’m not going to collapse,” Obito promised lightly. “But I’ll be leaving, give my thanks to Amane for putting up with my request.”

“And no thanks for me?”

Obito ignored him.

They came back that day by car, an assistant there to pick them up. Obito asked them about their trip. Humming and nodding alongside their words to show he was listening, even as his eyes drifted out the window.

“How was Toji?”

“As usual,” Mai answered.

She mulled over her sister’s words, felt like disagreeing but didn’t know how until her brother prompted her, calling her name.

“Mostly the same,” she recounted. “But maybe just a bit strange at times. Just a little.”

Obito’s expression didn’t change, only reassured, “He’ll unwind soon.”

“I’m not worried,” she insisted. Obito didn’t say anything, only smiled faintly.

She never specified Toji’s strangeness, but Obito answered as if she had. She never questioned it until later—no one did.

Just like later when he talked to his underclassmen about the mission the following day. They all went out to eat that day and if it were a celebration, it was a shabby one. Of all the places they could’ve gone to, they congregated at a fast-food restaurant. She remembered sitting on the flat, rigid seat and swinging her legs.

There was chatter about the mission they took part in. None of the underclassmen, other than Nanami, was one to hold back on their words. Even Shoko offered up some snippets of her boring days in the infirmary.

The most exciting story was, of course, Satoru and Suguru’s. The two bounced off each other as they recounted the details. And even as she was unimpressed with Satoru as a whole, she found herself drawn into the excitement. He did have a way with words, even if sometimes it felt more like an exaggeration than fact. But she would come to know that Satoru did boast more than he should for many things, but his battle prowess was not one of them.

“How is Amanai?” Obito came to ask during their recounting.

“Oh, she’s doing just fine,” Satoru answered. “Gotten right back to her studies and friends.”

Obito hummed, handed Satoru a napkin to wipe his fingers, stained with sauce and crumbs. “That’s good.”

Satoru took it without skipping a beat. “Isn’t it? She’s already planned out a trip for winter break.”

“Well, that’s eager of her,” Suguru stated, a laugh escaping him.

“Guess it can’t be helped.” Satoru wiped his fingers. “Comes with the territory of thinking you wouldn’t have winter break.” He crumbled up the napkin. “To think of it, that’ll be us in the future.”

“What do you mean?” Haibara asked.

“The no winter break thing,” Satoru answered lightly, tossing the balled napkin onto the table. Obito picked it up and put it onto the piling tray. “Haven’t I told you? Guess not.”

He took joy in their paling faces, made no secret of it as he snickered and regaled them of tales of the busy seasons of winter that was to become their life when they graduate.

“That’ll be Obito soon,” he said. “A fully working sorcerer.”

“Sounds miserable,” Shoko said. She imagined Obito as a working adult. Strangely enough, the image didn’t seem too separate from the him that was sitting next to them.

“There’s always university, senpai,” Haibara offered as a condolence.

Nanami eyed Satoru. “I don’t imagine he can escape.”

Satoru’s lips curled. “What’s that look for?”

They bantered. Obito didn’t say much. When they later prepare to part ways for the day’s evening at their arrival at the school’s dorm, he said, “Tell Amanai I wish her luck in her future entrance exams.”

Satoru considered it, then laughed. “Isn’t that too premature?”

“Perhaps.” Obito didn’t argue. She’d later come to learn that Amanai was only fourteen, a second-year junior high student at the time. Her high school entrance exam would not be until the year after that. Obito could be mistaken for not knowing Amanai’s age, but something in her told her that he knew.

It was a quality unique to Obito, the way he seemed to know everything, as though he were born with a pair of eyes that could see the truth of all things.

This is not true, of course. Obito’s eyes were crafted mundanely aside from the paint it was dyed in.

He did not know everything, but there was nothing of interest to him that he did not know more than it knew itself.

The elders found it terrifying. An enemy that knew their sins and weakness, a monster filled with all the worst of them.

But in her eyes, it all seemed so miserable.

“Remind me next year,” Satoru said.

“That’s assuming she’ll have kept contact with you by next year.”

“That’s mean!” Satoru whined.

A taunting silence as Obito just crossed his arm, ignoring Satoru’s statement. His eyes were on them, but now, she knew that his gaze was not.

As he stood with them in those familiar halls, what he saw was a cold, nameless street to which he’d find himself one day—alone, a curse user.

Things were busier after that summer. They were given training by Suguru alongside Panda. She reveled in it; her sister did not. Suguru was an okay teacher for a teenager, Obito was… different.

He could be said to be competent in that he knew how to teach, but he could also be said to be inexperienced in how he never seemed to teach them much in depth.

He taught them the proper way to run, the proper way to stretch, the proper way to observe their surroundings, the proper way to scale trees and buildings.

He never taught them how to fight. He let Suguru handle that instead, even when he would’ve been a better fit for hand-to-hand training and Suguru for the inverse. But even the inverse, he did not teach them.

It was not that he had nothing to teach, but no will to do so. No one noticed it to question him, and even if they did, they wouldn’t have gotten a real answer. If there was one thing Obito liked more than finding the truth, it was burying his own.

Obito seemed to take on another task that autumn with Shoko. They spend their time together often back then. Gotten to the point where Satoru whispered to her once, “You know what the deal is with them?”

She shook her head, Satoru shrugged, but it was neither easy nor casual. Obito’s time was always expertly portioned out, and Satoru has always gotten the choice of the slice. She didn’t think it was specifically Shoko, but what this represented in his mind—what he knew was coming but almost dreaded.

Even as Obito seemed he would continue as he were, she knew now that Satoru was thinking about all he knew about adulthood: the dreary, bluntness of reality that dulled everything it touched. Sanding down the brilliant edges of a gem until it became just another stone. Responsibilities, duties, expectations. Career, marriage, children.

She wondered if he was imagining it: someone by Obito’s side, another woman. A face he would not know and would not want to know. Performing the domesticities of life, building a world together that he could not be a part of.

A world where the title of childhood friend loses its place.

She’s sure that it unnerved him, but she’s also sure that he didn’t delve too deeply into it. Spent his time sidling up their side, asking to be fed or sidling up to Suguru’s side for a different kind of feed.

The food Shoko cooked was tasty, and she always smiled faintly but warmly when they praised her. Obito was a good teacher on that front, too. He’d stand next to her, cleaning up alone after they’d finished. He’d always tell Shoko to go enjoy the meal and eventually, she stopped fighting him.

It was during one of those idle, warm days that she found herself looking back on. It was not anything special, and she could not even remember the conversation being held at the time. All she could recall was that it was another banter between the second years, the first years being distant witnesses. Satoru was saying something again—being ganged up on verbally when he complained, raised his voice and looked to Obito to defend him. Obito had turned his head away, snorted, and ignored as usual. Head faced back down towards the meal in front of him, still warm from when Shoko made it all on her own.

What was special about that day was that she was standing beside him, hands reaching towards the fabric of his pants, wanting to draw his attention and ask for something or another.

She instead stood frozen, hands static in the air when she gazed up at him. and at that moment, she wanted to reach again, but not for the fabric of his pants.

She wanted to reach a hand up to the corners of his lips. To let the softness of his skin give beneath her fingers, move faintly as though a small ripple in the wide ocean. She wished she could close her hand and enclose that warmth within them, proof that she could carry in her pocket and show to all those who repeated that old tale about him.

See? You’re wrong, she would say. Obito can smile.

The atmosphere was strange that day when she walked towards the reception area—looking for her brother. Another day of autumn, the weather cooling but not yet freezing.

“What’s the fuss?” Satoru’s voice was sharper than usual, meanness with an edge. “Never seen a broken bone before?”

It gave them both pause as they stood outside the door, thin enough for voices to be heard through.

“We’ve seen plenty.” Another voice, this one they did not recognize. “But I suppose our expectations were too high considering who we’re dealing with.”

Satoru barked out a laugh. “Why don’t you at least say his name?”

There was a brief silence, enough for Satoru to sink his teeth into and tear.

“Thought so,” he said, viciously victorious. “You can’t even say his name but have expectations for him? That’s hilarious.”

He was anything but humored. A bird of prey sharpening its talon to prepare for the next dive.

“I’ll say this now, from what I know—” A razor to his emphasis. “—Obito didn’t start anything, he only ended it.”

“He threw the first punch.”

“Yeah? Well, you must’ve missed when the other one threw the first word,” Satoru responded.

“I also don’t quite get the fuss,” Shoko spoke, voice drawling lazily. Nonchalant in the way that meant she thought their opinion not worthy of energy. “Plenty of injuries happen during this event. Someone broke their arm last year, didn’t they?”

“I remember that,” Suguru agreed.

“Right, so it’s not about the broken nose, is it?” Satoru hummed. “Why don’t you tell me what it’s about then?”

Normally, they often are divided, bantering easy and arguments common. But during times like these, when they’re like wolves surrounding prey, that she’s reminded of what the real core of their relationship is like.

The silence was heavy, and it seemed to stretch on for an eternity.

“He injured his own blood.” The voice made them startle; it came from a direction other than the room and instead was towards their left. “His own clan heir at that.”

They almost froze at the sound. They have not heard his voice in what felt like years, and to hear it again made them tense up like a taut bow. Naoya, as if sensing their distress, only seemed disdainful. Shoving his way through them and opening the door towards the reception area.

Unlike usual, he didn’t say an insult towards them when he passed.

“Caring about relations now of all times? That’s rich,” Satoru responded. Just the same time as when Suguru waved them over. They followed, eager to duck into someone’s shadow to hide away from Naoya’s piercing eyes. “Last time I heard, disownment was on the menu when he graduated.”

“When he graduated, hear that key detail?”

“When your clan has already practically disowned him?” Satoru snorted. “Spare me the technicalities.”

“He’s still a Zen’in whether he likes it or not.”

“More like whether you like it or not.” Satoru crossed his legs. “And trust me, he’ll enjoy being a Gojo when the time comes, my offer doesn’t have an expiration date.”

“Last time I heard, you weren’t clan head.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m not as replaceable as you.” Satoru snickered. “No other candidate available, certainly not one that can break my nose.”

She glanced up, her sister’s gaze still cast downwards, and she saw that Naoya’s nose was bandaged. His face reddened, in humiliation or anger, or both. She can see him winding himself up again—like he always does when she argued that her brother was better than him. But this time, he couldn’t lash out at his target physically, so instead, his tongue sharpened.

“Go ahead and take him, take those two brats with you, too,” Naoya said, eyes landing on them, prey he can tear into. “I don’t want to deal with the cleanup if they’re still considered our clan when whatever he did with his brother he does to them, too.” Naoya smiled, lips twisting. “You want to bet he’ll even cry this time when he—”

Her ears were covered, Suguru’s hands atop them. Shoko’s atop her sister’s.

But it was too late.

Satoru stood up, the air almost freezing as he did so. She did not know what he said at that moment, his voice was quiet, lethal—unable to be deciphered by their covered ears.

She did not concern herself with it, could not when her attention was drawn elsewhere towards the entranceway. Someone stood there, silent and still. She could not see his expression, covered by Naoya’s figure. But she imagined if she was in Naoya’s shoes, head swiveled back like prey sensing danger, she would’ve seen the Obito that the world saw.

When Obito stepped to the side, letting himself be seen by them, his face was already schooled back into something neutral, almost reassuring. They can see his mouth moving, forming their names on his lips. They ran towards him, breaking away from Suguru and Shoko and crashing into his legs as he smoothed over their hair.

“Big brother, you’re here!” her sister called, relieved.

“I’m here,” Obito said, petting their hair. “And I’m here to say that the Kyoto school’s supervisor has summoned his students.”

“Lucky for you,” Naoya said, gritting his teeth.

“Take care,” Obito stated as Naoya passed.

Naoya steamed with rage. “Keep up the act, we’ll see how you end up soon.”

Obito didn’t even look at him. “Not with a broken nose, at least.”

Naoya’s face twisted, but in the end he left. His steps harsh and loud—never one to bottle up his emotions. His classmates followed him after a beat, no more pleased in having an irate Naoya in their hands than anyone else in this world.

In the wake of his leaving, there was a tentative silence that lasted only a second.

“Obito.” It was Satoru. “What’s the punishment?”

“Nothing major,” Obito dismissed. “I’ll be done with it in a day.”

“Want to spend that day hanging out instead?” Satoru asked, an offer to wave away Obito’s punishment with his vaulted authority as the Gojo’s Six Eyes.

“I’ll be back in half a day,” Obito promised.

“You better keep your word or else I’ll get so bored that I might go and wreck a clan compound or two.”

Obito didn’t say in response, but she can tell he was amused. The atmosphere was still delicate, like eggshells. There were questions that they each held, but no one asked.

It was one thing to hear distant rumors; it was another to hear the detonation shout next to one’s ears. To feel the heat and shockwave displace the air and to truly feel the charged tension brewing in the gun chamber, loaded and waiting for the trigger to be pulled.

“Did he say anything else beforehand?” Obito asked.

“You heard the climax of it,” Satoru answered.

“What about to you all?”

“No.” Shoko shook her head. “Just about you.”

“So nothing of note was said, then,” Obito concluded casually. He painted a simple picture, free of complexity—if it were a taste, it would be plain and sweet, like honeyed water.

The truth was cumbersome, not something that could be embraced with ease, so he erased the things that made it hard to accept.

He performed the motions of pretending that the chamber held no bullet. Erasing the charged tension that everyone felt prior by acting as though it did not exist and, if it did, only held the weight of a blank bullet. Something that could fire and sound but could not wound.

Even as the bullet lay waiting in the chamber, something worse than metal and lead.

“I’m thinking of making karaage for dinner today,” he stated, moving the conversation along—away.

“I want desserts!” Satoru fell into the step of the dance they’ve perfected since childhood easily. “I’ve done well today, haven’t I?”

The rest of them finally relaxed fully, back to old comfort.

“Perhaps there’s some spare ingredients to make something,” Obito promised vaguely.

“I’ll help, senpai,” Shoko offered. Things returned to normal, shifted there by Obito’s hands. They didn’t talk of Obito’s punishment, and he did return in half a day, no worse for wear so Satoru didn’t say anything further.

She later learned that his punishment was the disciplinary chamber. He did not stay there for a whole night like his last venture there. He opened the doors himself and walked out only after an hour, if that. They did not even try to stop him as they stood frozen, gazing into the chamber. This time, there were no curses crowded along the walls. It was empty.

He walked past their stunned forms, and towards the clan heir’s location without straying. What he did or said upon seeing Naoya was something Naoya made certain the servants would not make rumor of.

She would only learn what he said to Ogi when he passed the man through her mother as she sat in front of the woman.

Obito only said one thing, I’m glad that I’m your child.

And he smiled. That same gentle joy, eyes curved and lips the same. Cruel and terrible.

The dream was ending, and he was slowly waking back to that stark reality where he stood alone. A reality where he could only smile when misery came, and the cold consumed him whole.

Winter was a time of festivities, but to them, it was the season of birthdays. Counting with their fingers, it would take up one whole hand and one finger: theirs, their brother’s, Megumi’s, Satoru’s, Suguru’s, and Toji’s.

During winter, Satoru often commented that it was a missed opportunity that Shoko was not born a month later. If she were, they’d all share the same season for their birthday. And, not only that, but she’d share the same date as Satoru’s.

“No thanks,” Shoko would always reject wryly.

“Don’t curse her like that,” Suguru would add.

Satoru would complain, make a whole show of it. He didn’t mean it, she’d later learn. On the contrary. He liked keeping his birthday separate. Special.

There was a time when his birthday celebrations were limited to one invited guest, sometimes two. He did not want for the grandiosity that his clan offered, the stifling clothes and the meticulous handling. He did not want to be made into a god, with treasures laid at his feet. He wanted to be spoiled, with toys placed in his hands and a world he could walk in and not sit above.

With Obito, he was able to be that. Most of the snippets she heard were from after Obito left, a time when memories went from plentiful to nonexistent. He shared it, as though fearing it going rotten being left alone in his mind. There is a particular way he shared it with them, only to them. She remembered once him telling them that Obito took him to an aquarium one birthday. The way he said it, looking at a passing pet shop as he walked them back from school, fishes on display. She imagined him remembering the memory of that aquarium, the wide expanse of blue. The smile he would’ve given, the way the ocean would’ve been reflected in his eyes, and the sea would’ve dyed him whole as he pressed his hand to the tank, one amongst a thousand other living things brimming in the world beyond the pane.

Satoru passed that pet shop, tapped against the glass once. It only drew the attention of a single small fish. It did not even run up to the sound, instead it laid within its confines, torpid.

He was silent after that, then changed topics.

Back then, though, birthday celebrations had not yet become limited, and none of them knew this would be the last with Zen’in Obito.

It was an exciting season, fun. Sweets and celebrations and birthday songs and birthday games. Satoru’s, then Megumi’s, then it was their turn.

They’d spent the entire day with him, making him promise to take them to an amusement park. He did. They went on all sorts of rides, taking turns being carried on his shoulder once the walking got too tiring. It was a secret: she was not tired, but she enjoyed the way he pulled her up and let her hands rest on his hair.

She’d laugh and place her gloved hands on the sides of his face instead.

She would wish, too, that she could capture the feeling of his skin beneath her hands in that moment, even through the fabric. The way she could capture that slow, kindling heat beneath flesh. Warmth that ran through his veins that could melt snow—could melt even the coldest of things if he just embraced it.

It did, I could prove it, she’d say when she was disbelieved.

She’d pull to the memory of Obito’s birthday, or the morning of it. The time when the boundary between today and tomorrow has been crossed, and she was awoken by the sound of his returning. He was almost the same as usual, except for the snow that still lingered in between his locks.

She rose, he approached asking if he had disturbed her rest in a quiet, hushed voice. As she shook her head, she reached out towards the snow, wanting to dust it off his hair.

But when she did, what she met with was not cold and melting, but rather solid and almost warm. Thin, it felt, as she grasped it between her fingers. The velvet softness that snow could not produce.

“What’s this?” she asked, voice addled by sleep. Somehow, he deciphered her voice.

“A petal,” Obito answered, voice still quiet—but there was a softness to it this time. Like the very thing she held within her palm. “Cherry blossoms.”

“Oh, already?” She seemed to recall that the world only grew pink during spring, the time when they would move up another year of school.

“These bloomed early,” he said, like sharing a secret. “Satoru—Gojo—did it.”

It took her a moment to process the name. It would later take her many years to process the weight of it.

He told her to sleep, that he’d tell her the story the next morning.

When the next morning came, it was Satoru who bragged about his tale of conquest. He showed them all—classmates and underclassman—the fruits of his labor. It was a beautiful sight, the pink petals mixed with the snow, impressive enough to earn him Nanami’s grudging compliment. Satoru laughed as he needled it out of his prickly underclassman, cheeks flushed and lips stretched wide. He perched pretty on one of the two chairs in the garden. His, he’d answer if anyone asked—no one did, so he answered himself. He also gave names of flowers, like he couldn’t possibly contain them within himself. The rest listened to him with ranging levels of interest and fondness.

It felt warmer in the garden than anywhere else that day.

Almost like it was spring, she thought. And it felt appropriate that winter, too, could be melted by Obito’s touch.

That was her musing when she bumped into someone’s leg, too preoccupied with her thoughts. She did not know back then why she was so surprised to see Satoru’s face peering down at her, shock so evident that even he made fun of her and drew her attention away.

Her instincts knew before she did. She had bumped into him directly and felt the fabric of his pants against her forehead. And when he laughed, the flower petals that were entangled in his hair fell.

More than winter, she thought now. A warmth that could even reach through infinity and touched the divine.

But they did not need any proof. They’d look at her paltry evidence and they’d say, We have something better. Then they’d pulled her to that incident. The unmentionable stain on the jujutsu world.

Look, the one in her imagination would say, pointing towards the ruin that he left in his wake. The easy way he pulled a god from their throne within just one night and felled their kingdom, tossing the world into turmoil. The trail that he left in his path, for a war that has no purpose than destruction. Look at it and tell me again that it is warmth.

In spring, Obito graduated and the rest moved up a year—them included.

They also moved out of his dorms into a real home. They did not ask how Obito managed to purchase it, children’s minds held not yet the complicated logistics of budgets and economies. All they knew was that it was perfect. A lovely, comforting home that neighbored the Fushiguro’s. They giggled into the blanket of their new bed when they jumped on it, looked at each other, and twisted and turned as if trying to engrave the softness into their skin.

They didn’t speak about their new home to each other; they did not need to. When they’d locked eyes, they’d giggle all over again. She felt as if they’d never managed to get used to this feeling. It was different when they moved into Obito’s dorm. Now that they were here, they could imagine themselves living here: the things filling their fridge, lining their closest, decorating their rooms. They could imagine a future, them being grown-up teenagers and moving through these same halls, so comfortable with it they’d know every creak and scratch.

There was a new routine to settle into, and they stepped into it readily. School was closer, no longer requiring a car to make part of the journey or a technique to teleport them close. When Obito was away, they spent time with Megumi and his family. It was sometimes lonely without the presence of the other teenagers, but not something they dwelled on for too long. Obito began to change out of his uniform and into something new, traditional.

Toji made fun of him for it, called him lame. Obito just ignored him.

The foundation of their routine did not change much: school for them, and missions for Obito. The actors were replaced, that’s all. But even then, the underclassmen visited them when they could, bringing souvenirs and chatter of what happened while Obito was away.

Shoko would often thumb through the fridge, looking and asking Obito what he was making for the day if she could not figure it out. Satoru, on the other hand, preferred the garden. He installed another chair there without asking and took care of the flowers sometimes when he came over. He made Mai a flower crown, clumsy and rough and barely held together, it made Mai happy, so she reluctantly gave him a pass for plucking Obito’s flowers.

Suguru when he came with the rest, spent time with the others. But he was apparently the one that Obito went on missions with the most. A fact that she only knew from Satoru’s complaints.

Fairness was Satoru’s mantra. As if he did not have the lion share of Obito’s time until then. Suguru just shrugged and Obito gave no reason. Things seemed normal between them, and she enjoyed the days when Suguru came over for dinner, always with a story to tell. But sometimes, he seemed absentminded, starting in the middle of spring and growing moreso. They didn’t ask about it, people get lost in thought all the time, she thought.

She did not know that there was something wrong until she returned one morning from staying over at the Fushiguro’s home for a sleepover. She’d walked up the stairs with her sisters, and when opening the door to her brother’s room to greet him, she was met with a quiet, soft sound. Almost like the wind. A request for quiet.

Her brother was sitting on the edge of his bed, but he was not getting up from it. Someone else was lying in his bed. The blankets were tucked up to their neck, covering them from sight, one of Obito’s hand rested on their hair.

Obito looked at them, placed a finger on his lips and mouthed, Later.

They nodded, grinned and held their own fingers over their lips. When they snuck back to their room, they speculated on who it could be. One of his underclassmen, they thought.

“Or a crush!” Mai said, excited. She was at a precocious age but caught up in the chattering at school about crushes and romance.

She frowned, it did not seem like Obito to have crushes. That was the kind of thing that felt childish, somehow, too soft a mold for him to fit and be contained in. She could not imagine her brother like the boys at school who Mai told had crushes on one girl or another, being shy and chattery with a flush lining their cheeks or making faces and pulling hair.

Crushes were different, Mai insisted. When you’re grown up, it’ll look different.

She still could not imagine it. Could not picture his heart beating loudly like the sound effect that always goes into romance. The racing pulse of a heart that had stretched to hold another within it.

When Suguru walked out of his room and down the stairs later, they were slightly surprised. Breakfast that day was nice, Suguru felt more relaxed than he did in some time. His hair was messy, and he was wearing her brother’s clothes, she recognized. The black yukata with obi tied around his waist. It fit almost the same on him; they were roughly the same frame and height. Though like Satoru, Suguru had outgrown Obito, but unlike Satoru, it wasn’t yet too much of a difference.

He said goodbye after he put his dishes into the sink, waving to Obito as he left with a promise to be back later.

“He was overworking himself,” Obito said while he was washing the dishes. “Hopefully that’ll improve.”

It didn’t feel an adequate explanation for the scene that they saw that morning, but she didn’t ask. She was not sure whether Suguru took care of himself better or not after that, what she was sure of, however, was that he began to show up a lot more frequently at their home.

The first time, it was return the clothes he borrowed. He’d washed them, of course, and he said his thanks in a manner she was not familiar with. Slightly awkward, haltering, but not tense, almost like he did not know how to interact with Obito.

Mai was right about crushes and its shifting nature, but she would not realize until years later.

She noticed changes with him. When he came over with the rest of the group, he’d spend time with the rest but begin to drift towards Obito. And when Satoru spoke about fairness again, he’d wrangle his hands and instead of saying he did not know, he’d say that it could not be helped. Not in a helpless manner, but in the overindulgent tones of a braggart.

Then came the day that would rest in her memory, as a memory that was not too significant, yet not insignificant either.

Obito had gone out on a mission the morning of to Tsuruoka, and he promised them a souvenir when he returned the next day. He did return the next day, but the morning of during the transitory hours between one day to the next. She did not know what woke her that day, perhaps the lumbering steps that climbed the stairs, heavier and louder than what she’d heard. Or perhaps it was the chatter, louder than the hush of the night.

Obito. She heard, an unfamiliar sound that came from a familiar voice. Senpai. Almost an afterthought, but something glutinous to it, like honey.

When the door to his room opened, she had risen, blinking blearily. Curiosity pecked at her, and she moved out of the comfort of her bed and away from Mai, who was still asleep. She opened the door quietly, not wanting to wake her sister and made her way across the small distance between Mai’s official room, and her brother’s.

This time when the door opened, the scene was slightly different. Suguru was deposited on the bed again, but he was not lying down. Instead, he was seated, arms slung around Obito as he stood trying to slide Suguru’s uniform jacket off his arm.

“He overdid himself,” Obito said, voice slightly quieter than usual.

“Not,” Suguru said.

“One more cup, he said,” Obito repeated dryly. Then, glanced at her. “Don’t follow his example.”

“I won’t.” She studied Suguru, the malleableness of his body and the dazed manner of his eyes. He did seem drunk, but not in the way she was familiar with: angry, miserable adults back at the clan compound. She then glanced back at her brother. “Are you drunk?”

Obito studied her for a moment, as if gauging what she knew about drunkenness.

“I should not be,” he said. It was not an answer. “I could detoxify it soon enough.” This was not an answer either. Should and could, does not mean is or did. “Unlike him.” He shook at Suguru’s body again, trying to untangle jacket from limbs. “He should’ve been more careful with his first time drinking.” He let out a soft snort. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t have recognized his limits.”

“Isn’t it your first time, too?” she asked.

He managed to get one sleeve off. “It should be.”

That wasn’t an answer. She’d never seen her brother drink or be drunk, but to think of it, she would never know.

“It was mine.” A new voice spoke, she looked towards its source. Drooping against Obito’s frame, a smile now on his lips. There was a sweetness to it, an invitation. “My first time.” He said it like he was only joining in on their conversation but the undertone to his words flew over her young mind. The saccharine notes of a bird’s song, waiting to be joined.

She thinks it also flew over her brother’s mind, if it did not, he would’ve at least reacted.

“Yes,” Obito said dryly, like this was something he’d had to repeat. “So be more careful next time.”

Suguru would probably be more reserved if he was sober, not for the fact that he’s shy or reticent, but for the pure fact that he would’ve been mindful of her presence. But being a drunk teenager dizzied on his emotions, he held little logic other than want.

During that time, Obito managed to wrangle another sleeve from Suguru’s other arm. He folded it deftly, then placed it on the side of the bed.

“Next time,” Suguru promised, a drunkard’s promise that held no meaning. “But this is still this time.” His arms were now back where they were when she first saw them. “How about this time?”

“I don’t have any sake in my home,” Obito answered bluntly.

“I don’t want sake.”

“I don’t have any other alcohol either.”

“I want something else.”

“I was already going to get you water.”

If it were not her brother involved, she’d later laugh at this memory. But this was her brother involved, so all she felt was the belated pain of being a third wheel to Suguru’s young flirting attempts.

“Don’t leave,” Suguru said, a plea that came out softer than she expected. Like when she’d press upon the skin of a grape and feel its pulp. “Stay.” He stared up at Obito, his face seemed sober—solemn, even if his eyes were dazed. “That’s my wish.”

She does not know the exact thoughts that went through Obito’s mind at that moment. She did not know whether he was drunk or not when he promised, “This time.”

Whether he knew he could not promise Suguru a next time, so he gave him this time instead.

Suguru did not realize this, so he smiled. It was a beautiful smile, the most beautiful she’d ever seen from him, she thought. He looked handsome to her in that moment—something that she knew but did not recognize until the moment he shifted in front of her eyes, from the playful teenage boy she was familiar with, to a man who was intoxicated with just one drop of ink that dripped from Obito’s eyes to his lips when those eyes fell upon him.

Suguru then called Obito’s name. It rang softly in her ears, like church bells. In a way she’d never heard anyone say her brother’s name before.

Obito. He called, as if this, too, was something that inebriated him and he wished to be so drunk he could not tell the moon from the sun. His voice is a mixture of something quiet and yet overflowing. She did not know what his tone held, the true essence of the honey that flowed from his lips. All she knew was that she felt she could never forget his voice, his smile, the color of his eyes.

It was a gaze and sound that would’ve struck anyone to where they stood, flesh made into stone, and limbs made into sculpture—an idol to be worshipped, kissed upon reverently.

Almost anyone.

“But I have to do something first,” Obito bargained, moving away from Suguru’s arms. He could’ve this whole time. “Stay here, or better yet, sleep. I’ll be sitting beside you.”

As if Suguru would go anywhere else or even let himself sleep without fighting it.

It is funny how much Obito saw, and how much he did not see.

He picked her up easily, she smelled the scent of alcohol on him. Sweetness with a sharp edge to it, matching the dulcet notes of his heart against her cheeks.

“That’s being drunk?” she asked, her uncles and father and distant older relations flipping through her mind. Even Toji did not seem like this when drunk.

Obito hummed, crossing the small hallway. “Intoxicated, maybe.” When she asked what that word meant, he continued, “When you can’t think straight anymore.”

Intoxication, perhaps that was the form crushes took when it grew and evolved with age: when shyness and chattering became flushed cheeks and chanting a name like a mantra; when pulling on pigtails became begging someone to stay just for a second longer; when sneaking glances and faint, grazing contact became staring at them as if they were something to be sanctified and each touch becomes a plea for allowance of blasphemy.

She thought of Suguru, and as he was about to lay her back down onto her bed, she asked, “What about you? Are you intoxicated?”

He chuckled softly. “I don’t think I can be.”

He tucked her into bed, then went downstairs to presumably get water. Then, there was the sound of his door shutting. The next morning, Suguru suffered from a headache—Obito warned her of it when he saw Suguru, if she were to drink when she was older—and quickly dodged out of their home like he was being chased.

Embarrassed, Obito noted, faintly amused.

If only he knew.

He picked her up again, but when she rested against his chest and felt his heart beneath her, she realized it was slower than that morning.

He was drunk that night, she realized later. She held proof, then, that his heart was not a mechanical clock with prearranged hands that ticked in an organized tandem. It was an organ that could beat and stretch and become intoxicated.

See, you’re wrong, she imagined saying.

You’re wrong, her imaginary opponent responded. It can’t be.

Summer was the season she wished time had died and leave the world in its eternal wake.

Obito spent the summer accompanying them, at home or wherever else they wanted to go. If they said it, he would fulfill it. The beach, parks, cafes, festivals, movies—anywhere and everywhere, and anything they wanted he’d give to the best of his ability.

Every day felt like a dream, a limited time treasure that only existed there and nowhere else. She portioned out the memories of that summer carefully, thinking about only small fragments at a time. It felt like something that had to be rationed, laid out and cut into ant-sized pieces so she’d have enough to stretch a season into a lifetime.

It wasn’t enough, of course. Her mind fought against her every day, forgetting things as it slipped out of childhood. Some days, she cannot recall what they did at the amusement park the went to—whether this memory was from the first or the second time they went, if there was a second time at all and not just one long, long trip. She cannot recall whether this sweetness is real or something artificial, handmade by her own mind to supplement what was lost to time.

There are, of course, things that she cannot forget.

She remembered the waves of the beach, swimming against the waves. Laughing as she raced and her brother watched her from the shore. The watermelon sweet on her tongue, the sand warm beneath her feet. The light coolness against her hands as she stared awed and pressed against the transparent pane.

“I want to ride that!” she said, pointing to the highest point on the mechanism from within the Ferris wheel.

“When you’re tall enough,” Obito replied, watching her.

“One day!” she said and almost made him promise.

Obito just looked at her, the world stretching beyond the glass. “We’re about to reach the peak.”

They were distracted then, eager to see what the view was like from a bird’s eye. Maybe even higher than a bird’s, she thought within the cabin. When she looked back at him, eager to point something out, she noticed he was looking away towards the other side of the cabin. Not towards the park and the roller coaster, but towards the exit. She could not see his expression, but she saw a brief glimpse of the world through his eyes in that moment: the world, everything and everyone. He could see almost anything anyone did within the bounds of the park, know almost anything about them if given enough time: what they liked, who they spent time with, what their moods were.

But in the end, they would be strangers to him, whose name he will not learn, and voices he cannot ever hear.

She tugged on his sleeve. “We’re descending.” She did not know why she said so at the time, now she knew. She wanted to remind him.

The silence broke, he turned his attention to her. “We are.”

Somehow, she did not feel reassured. When they exited the cabin at the stop, he glanced back once, eyes on the glass pane. Then he turned, held their hands, and asked them which ride they wanted to go on next.

“Teacups!” Mai suggested. This time, she did not disagree with her sister. Anything, she thought. Something—just away from here. When the day came to an end and they exited the park alongside the rest of the park goers, she glanced back just as he did earlier. And when she did, the wheel was not in motion. One lofty cabin rested at the top, the dark night sky showing through its glass panes.

She cannot forget that sight, the color of the night as it peeked through the glass. Dark as his eyes.

When June rolled around, it was humid. She remembered the droplets of rain hit against the umbrella as they headed into the rainy season where not only rain fell, but the petals of hydrangeas as well. They skipped puddles, laughing in their raincoats as Obito trailed them, eyes indulgent.

He warned them of sickness that came with the rain, instead of arguing she remember holding out her hand and saying, “Hurry up, big brother!”

He blinked, laughed, then took long strides to hold her hands in his. The umbrella swayed, rain wetting his face, but he did not seem to care. When she looked back, she’d always remember the way the rain fell against his eyes and when he blinked, it dropped down his cheeks. But between one second and the next, it fell away again, leaving only wetness and a faint smile.

That night, she reached towards the corners of his eye when he tucked her and Mai into bed. She felt the softness of it, as well as the dryness.

As he looked down upon her, she thought of him again in that ferris wheel. And an impulse urged her to ask, “Is it true? The thing about you crying.”

“Perhaps.” He could’ve lied, didn’t. But this wasn’t the truth either, because he did not know the truth to give it.

“Oh,” she said. That was all she could say. She felt disappointed, like she could cry herself. Naoya’s voice whispered in her ear, maybe he would not cry for her.

That night she dreamed about him, the ferris wheel. She was sitting next to him, and he gazed down at her. When she reached up to his eyes, she felt it was dry. “Big brother,” she called. He did not answer. Not because he did not want to, she realized. But because he could not hear her. And then, he could not feel her either.

She woke up crying. The sheets around her felt unbearable. She did not know what drove her to run, to leave her room and down the stairs and out the door. All she knew was that she did not want to be in that house with him. Naoya’s voice rang in her ears again, mocking. He would not cry for her. He could do anything—why not this last thing?

It felt so silly, so small. But she felt so, so aggrieved. The idea that she could be gone, and he would not even cry—not even be sad. He cried for his brother, his mother, why not her, too? Was she not good enough? She felt a pang of guilt for comparing herself to his mother and brother, both dead. He was a baby back then, she thought. Of course he’d cry. She felt silly for her thoughts, and she hated it. But this only made her cry more and run farther.

Perhaps it is true that greed is limitless. He’d given her his smiles, his warmth, his heartbeat, and she wanted his tears. Even if that would only mean his sorrow. But sorrow meant that he cared. His sadness was the ultimate proof of their value, that they really could be like family to him—like his mother and brother.

Her mother had given her smiles, warmth, a heartbeat—but she had never cried for Maki. Not since the day she gave birth to them and cried from pain.

You do not need proof for love, but she desperately needed it. Wanted something that she could grasp onto and hold and say: yes, he really does love me. Smiles, his warmth, his heartbeat—none of this she could grasp. His tears, she could feel in her hands. If he cried, she would not let it fall like the rain. She would cradle it gently within her palm and let it soak into her skin.

She ran and ran and—

“Maki!” A sharp jolt on her shoulder, her body pulled back by a hurried force.

She inhaled, then hiccupped. Balancing precariously on stairs that she’d wound up on without thought. The hand on her shoulder was warm, familiar. But at that moment, she did not want to feel it. She fought against his touch, her tears falling again.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

“I don’t want to!” she shouted, it didn’t sound nearly as harsh, dampened by her tears.

“We can talk about why you’re crying then,” again, he insisted. “Or who made you cry.”

She stomped her foot, shook her head and again shouted. Each time, he repeated, Home. Who. Why. Maki.

“I don’t want to!” She slapped his hand, glared up at him accusingly. Then she paused, the anger taken out and replaced with something meeker, cowering.

She was looking at the Obito that the world saw.

Words escaped her, she felt like prey trapped. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, the same as it did when she was back at the clan compound. her breath hiccupped, stalled, stuttering.

“You hate me,” she said. “You’re angry with me.” Her sobs grew. “You’re annoyed with me.”

His hand froze, then it left her shoulder.

“You don’t care about me,” she accused, crying. “It’s just like Naoya said. If I die, you’re not going to cry for me.” She sobbed, wiping her tears and snot on her arms. “I can never be like your real brother. I’m not a good sister to you.”

It was silent for a long, long time. Filled with only her tears.

Then, he spoke, “So it was me.” His voice was not one that she was familiar with. It startled her gaze upwards, to the source of it.

When she looked at him, she realized that crying could come without tears, without expression.

“I’m sorry,” Obito said. His words were slow, like he didn’t know what to say other than this. “I’m sorry, Maki.” He paused, and again, he repeated his apologies. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t hate you. I’m not angry. You’re already my sister. It was my fault, Maki.

“It’s not you, Maki, I’m not a very good brother.” His voice was quiet. “So don’t blame yourself.”

She never knew that sobs could take the form of words. That weeping could be so muted.

“I’ll leave you alone, just call my name when you want to go back,” he said. “I can take you to the dorms, if you don’t want that.”

She cried, but this time, she did know where the tears came from, if it was hers at all.

She grasped onto his sleeve as he moved to leave. She did not know what to do other than cry. She felt him move slowly, then he leaned down wrapping his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, as though he wanted to pacify her tears with his apologies. His apologizing that he could not cry and had no tears to shed. “Naoya’s wrong because nothing will happen to you for me to cry.” He patted her hair, pressed her face against his shoulder so she would have something to cry on. “No matter what happens from now on, just know that you’re good enough, Maki.”

His words were firm, and she felt a finality in them.

“I won’t make you cry anymore, I promise,” he said solemnly.

A lie, she thought for years after that.

But now she knew it was not. It was the only truth he could give.

A memory from so long ago, the hazy light of the sunset. Obito looking at them. It’s because it’s me, he said. It’s because you love them that they’ll be able to hurt you where no one else can, do you understand that. Obito laughed. You’ll hurt here. He poked at his chest.

And it’ll hurt a lot. I don’t want you to get hurt.

“Even if it’s the last thing I can do for you.” He was silent for a moment. “As your big brother.”

You’re wrong, Obito. You were a good big brother. She would smile then, and continue, holding the last piece of evidence on her palm, dripping from her cheeks. Look, you’ve made me cry again.

She could not imagine his expression, but she imagined he would finally run out of words to argue.