Chapter Text
Rain drummed against the classroom window in erratic bursts, each droplet exploding into tiny fractures against the glass. Aladdin traced one with his fingertip, watching the water distort the view of the empty parking lot beyond. His backpack sagged against his chair, stuffed with half-finished worksheets and the lingering scent of peanut butter from lunch.
"Bet he forgot again," Alibaba said, leaning against the teacher's desk with that infuriating smirk. His shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he shifted, deliberately loud. "Third time this month. You'd think dating someone would make him less of a flake."
Aladdin kicked his legs under the chair, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor. "Judar doesn't forget," he muttered, though the sinking feeling in his stomach suggested otherwise. The clock above the door ticked past 4:30. Mrs. Haki had already given him that tight-lipped look twice—the one that meant she was calculating how long before she could call Child Services.
The door banged open with enough force to send a gust of rain-scented air rushing through the room. Judar stood in the doorway, drenched. His usual leather jacket clung to him like a second skin, dripping onto the welcome mat. His raven-black hair was plastered to his forehead. "Fuck," he gasped, wiping rainwater from his eyes. "Fuck, fuck—Aladdin, get your ass over here before your teacher skins me alive."
Judar's boots left wet, smeared prints across the linoleum as he stumbled further into the classroom. His breath came in ragged bursts, shoulders heaving like he'd sprinted the whole way. A strand of sopping hair stuck to his cheek, dripping steadily onto the collar of his ruined leather jacket.
"Shit," Judar repeated, shaking his head like a dog. Water droplets sprayed across the nearest desks. "Traffic was a fucking nightmare. Then my bike died three blocks back. Had to run." He bent double, hands braced on his knees, gulping air.
Alibaba snorted, nudging Aladdin's shoulder. "Sure it wasn't Hakuryuu keeping you?" he teased, waggling his eyebrows.
Judar flipped him off without straightening up. "Shut your mouth, Four-Eyes. Not everything's about your pathetic obsession with my love life." His voice was hoarse, strained from running.
Aladdin hopped to his feet, his stomach growling loud enough to echo off the classroom walls. "Let's go home. I'm starving."
Judar sighed, thumbing his cracked phone screen with a scowl. "Yeah, hurry up. I don't have all day." He shoved the phone back into his soaked pocket, already turning toward the door—
"Judar."
The voice sliced through the room, sharp and deliberate. Mrs. Serendine stood by her desk, arms crossed, her dark eyes locked onto him. Judar stiffened. Aladdin froze mid-step, glancing between them.
"Private talk," Serendine said. It wasn't a request.
Judar exhaled through his nose, jerking his head toward Alibaba. "Take the runt outside. Five minutes."
Aladdin hesitated, clutching his backpack straps tighter. Judar gave him a rough pat on the head—more a push than anything. "Go. I'll catch up."
Alibaba guided Aladdin out with a nervous glance back, the classroom door clicking shut behind them.
Serendine folded her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Judar, you can't keep being late—"
"Responsibility lecture again?" Judar leaned against a desk, water still dripping from his jacket sleeves onto the floor. "Save it. He eats, sleeps, and goes to school. What more do you want?"
Serendine sighed, pulling a file from her desk drawer. "You missed three parent-teacher conferences. He showed up to class twice last week with no lunch. And then there's..." She flipped the folder open, revealing a hospital discharge form. "The stove incident."
Judar's jaw tightened. "He dropped a fucking pan. Kids are clumsy."
"Third-degree burns aren't clumsiness." She tapped the report. "The neighbors called 911 because you weren't home. Again."
A muscle twitched in Judar's temple. He snatched the folder, skimming the pages with narrowed eyes. "He's fine now. I handled it."
"That's the problem." Serendine leaned forward. "You handle things after they explode. Guardianship means preventing the explosions." She slid a business card across the desk. "There's a support group—"
Judar laughed, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, I'll get right on that between night shifts and his goddamn algebra homework." He crumpled the card without looking at it. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly yellow on Serendine's exhausted face.
Outside, Aladdin's muffled giggles drifted through the door—probably at one of Alibaba's stupid jokes. Judar's fingers flexed. Twelve missed calls from the hospital that night, his phone buried under pizza boxes in the breakroom. Aladdin's small hand clutching the ER sheets, skin raw and blistered.
"You're nineteen," Serendine repeated softly. "Most kids your age are worrying about finals, not raising their younger siblings. I know how hard it is."
"Fuck 'most kids.'" Judar shoved off the desk, chair screeching. "He's mine. End of discussion."
The hallway smelled of bleach and wet sneakers. Alibaba leaned against the lockers, tossing Aladdin's lunchbox between his hands like a basketball. "Took you long enough," he teased.
Judar snatched the lunchbox mid-air, knocking Alibaba's shoulder hard as he passed. "Move."
Rain lashed the windows. Aladdin skipped ahead, humming, oblivious to the tension coiling in Judar's shoulders. Serendine's card burned in his pocket. Call me if you need help. Like he'd ever—
Aladdin's sneaker caught the wet tile. Judar lunged, grabbing his hood before he faceplanted. "Watch it, dumbass."
Aladdin giggled, swinging from Judar's grip like a monkey. "Race you to the bike!"
Judar didn't run. His boots dragged against the linoleum, each step heavier than the last. The hospital bills were piling up. The landlord’s threats were getting louder. And now this bitch wanted to take Aladdin to some foster home with dates to visit on the weekends.
A sharp honk jerked his head up. Alibaba leaned against his damaged car, waggling his eyebrows. "Need a ride, princesses?"
Judar flipped him off. The bike was parked three blocks away, half-dead from this morning’s breakdown. Aladdin was already clambering into Alibaba’s backseat, chattering about curry. Judar’s stomach growled traitorously.
"Fine. But no detours." He slumped into the passenger seat, knee jamming against the glove compartment. Too small. Everything was always too fucking small.
Alibaba smirked. "Wouldn’t dream of it." The lie was obvious—he took the long route immediately, windows cracked to let in the damp post-rain air. Judar’s fingers drummed against his thigh, Serendine’s card crumpled in his pocket like a grenade.
Aladdin’s socked feet kicked his seatback. "Judar, can we—"
"No."
"But I didn’t even—"
"No," Judar said again, leaning his forehead against the cool car window. The glass vibrated faintly with the engine's rumble, matching the restless pulse beneath his skin. He was so fucking tired. The memory rose unbidden—Aladdin's small, wheezing breaths in the hospital bed, the stench of antiseptic and smoke clinging to his brother's pajamas. Judar had promised himself never to fail him like that again after their parents' wrecked car was pried open. But sometimes, the weight of it crushed him.
There was only one person who ever made the static in Judar's head quiet. Hakuryuu's fingers digging into his hips, the sting of teeth on his shoulder, the way Judar could lose himself in the heat of it—no bills, no teachers, no fucking consequences. Just pleasure, sharp and obliterating. That night, when Aladdin's call had blinked on his phone screen, Judar had let the shower roar louder, drowning it out. Hakuryuu's mouth had been on his throat, hands urgent. You should answer, Hakuryuu had groaned, but Judar had snarled no, pressing him harder against the tiles.
And then—the hospital. The doctor's tight voice. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Lucky to be alive.
Aladdin's small hand in his, sticky with IV tape. I tried to call you.
Judar's stomach twisted even now, two years later. He'd never told anyone why he hadn't picked up. Hakuryuu didn't know. Could never know. That Judar ignored Aladdin when it all got too much, that sometimes, Judar hated his brother's existence because he felt chained to a life he didn't want anymore.
The car hit a pothole, jolting Judar's temple against the window. Alibaba was humming off-key to some pop song. Aladdin was doodling on his knee with a marker stolen from Serendine's desk. Normal shit. Happy shit. Judar dug his nails into his palms until the guilt fractured into something more manageable: irritation.
"Stop kicking my seat, brat."
Aladdin stuck his tongue out but stilled. Judar exhaled through his nose. The kid had been clingier since the accident—wide-eyed when Judar left for work, hovering when he cooked. Like he was afraid Judar would vanish mid-omelet. It made Judar's skin crawl. He wasn't their fucking dad. He was barely twenty, wrists still aching from double shifts at the garage.
-----
"Thanks for the ride!" Aladdin chirped, waving at Alibaba through the rolled-down window. Judar barely grunted in acknowledgment, already turning towards their apartment building—then froze. The front door was ajar, the gaping darkness inside broken only by streaks of something dark smeared across the threshold. Judar's pulse spiked. That wasn't paint.
"Get behind me," he ordered, shoving Aladdin back with one arm. The kid frowned up at him, confused. "We should call the police," Aladdin whispered, fingers clutching Judar's sleeve. "Is someone hurt?"
Judar didn't answer. The metallic tang hit his nostrils before he fully registered the scene—copper and something sour beneath it. Blood. Old blood. His stomach twisted. "You call," he ground out, ignoring Aladdin's panicked whisper of wait! as he stepped inside, the creak of the door obscenely loud in the silence.
The living room looked like a slaughterhouse. Dark crimson streaked the hardwood in violent arcs, pooling around overturned furniture. Judar's breath came short. They lived alone. Nobody should have been here. Behind him, Aladdin's tremulous voice recited their address to the dispatcher, the words barely penetrating the white noise in Judar's skull.
His gaze caught on a glint near the sofa—a shattered phone screen, Hakuryuu's cracked lock screen wallpaper glaring up at him. Judar's throat closed. No. He'd ignored Hakuryuu's last three texts. Had he come by? Had he been—?
"Hakuryuu!" Judar barked the name before he could stop himself, the echo bouncing off the bloodstained walls. The silence that followed was worse. Some primal part of him knew, with terrible certainty, that this was no random break-in. The violence here was personal. Methodical.
A wet crunch underfoot made him look down. A snapped pencil—no, a syringe—lay in two pieces amid the carnage. Judar's blood ran cold. He knew that brand. Knew the hands that preferred them.
Aladdin's panicked voice floated from the doorway. "They're coming! Judar, please come back—"
The bedroom door stood ajar. Judar moved toward it on autopilot, each step heavier than the last. The knob was sticky. He pushed it open with his elbow.
Judar's scream wasn't human—it was the sound of something primal tearing loose from his chest. Aladdin bolted forward before he could think, sneakers skidding on blood-slicked floorboards, then froze mid-step. The scene burned itself into his retinas: Hakuryuu's left arm ended in a ragged stump below the elbow, his torso peeled open like a grotesque anatomy lesson. Judar crouched over the body, fingers digging into Hakuryuu's ruined shirt, his sobs coming in jagged, animalistic bursts.
"Judar..." Aladdin's whisper barely made it past his own fingers clamped over his mouth. The metallic stench of blood mixed with something fouler made his stomach heave. "Come with me! Please!" He reached out blindly, fingers brushing Judar's shoulder. "There's help coming—"
Judar whirled on him, pupils blown wide, spittle flying from his lips. "He's DEAD!" The words ricocheted off the walls. "Who did this?!" His hands fluttered over Hakuryuu's face, smearing blood across lifeless cheeks. "I can't leave him! I CAN'T!"
Aladdin stumbled back until the wall hit his spine. He slid down, arms wrapping around his knees, watching Judar's unraveling through a curtain of tears. His brother—always so controlled, so viciously precise—was coming apart at the seams, forehead pressed to Hakuryuu's chest as if listening for a heartbeat that wouldn't come.
Spit dripped from Judar's chin, hitting the tacky floorboards in thick strands just as the first officer barreled through the apartment door. "Get off him!" The cop's shout barely registered—Judar's fingers were still tangled in Hakuryuu's blood-matted hair when rough hands seized his shoulders and wrenched him backward. His knees skidded through gore as he was hauled upright, the sudden movement sending a fresh wave of nausea through him. His own reflection in the officer's riot visor was grotesque: lips peeled back from his teeth, eyes wild and unblinking, streaks of Hakuryuu's blood smeared across his cheekbone like war paint.
Aladdin scrambled forward as two more officers surged past him, their boots leaving tread marks in the drying blood. "Stop—he didn't do it!" His voice cracked under the weight of the lie. Because Judar had done things—terrible things—just never to Hakuryuu. Never like this. A gloved hand shoved him back against the wall as radios crackled with codes he didn't understand.
Judar thrashed against the grip holding him, his breathing ragged. "Check his fucking phone!" he snarled, jerking his chin toward Hakuryuu's shattered device lying near the bed. "You'll see—" The officer twisted his arm higher behind his back, cutting off his words with a pained
grunt. The room swam—Hakuryuu's body was being photographed now, flashes of light bleaching the horror into something clinical and cold.
"Judar, stop fighting!" Aladdin's plea went unheard as another officer knelt beside the corpse, gloved fingers probing the gaping wounds with detached efficiency. Judar went still suddenly, his chest heaving. The cop holding him relaxed his grip—just enough—and that's when Judar lunged forward again, teeth bared. "DON'T TOUCH HIM!"
The taser hit him mid-step. His body convulsed violently before collapsing onto the sticky floor beside Hakuryuu's outstretched hand. Aladdin screamed—a sound swallowed by the shouted orders and static-filled radios.
-----
The interrogation room smelled like stale coffee and industrial cleaner. Judar sat perfectly still in the hard plastic chair, his fingers curled loosely around a lukewarm paper cup that had gone untouched for hours. His reflection in the two-way mirror was hollow-eyed, his usually sharp features blurred by exhaustion and shock. Across the table, the detective sighed, rubbing his temples. "Judar, we can't help you if you don't talk to us. Your neighbor heard screaming. Your boyfriend's dead in your apartment. And you're covered in his blood." Judar blinked slowly, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the detective's shoulder. His lips moved soundlessly, forming the same two words over and over like a prayer: Not him. Not him.
Serendine's arms tightened around Aladdin as his small frame shuddered against her. The boy's tears soaked through her blouse, hot and endless. "I'm so glad you're here," he hiccuped, fingers clutching fistfuls of her sleeve. "What's happening now?" The question hung between them, fragile as the tremble in his voice. Serendine smoothed his hair back, her palm lingering against his damp forehead. "Don't worry," she murmured, the lie bitter on her tongue. "I'm here to help." She felt him stiffen when she added, "You can't go home now, do you understand?" Aladdin nodded weakly, his breath hitching.
The fluorescent lights of the police station hallway buzzed overhead, casting sickly shadows across their faces. Aladdin pulled back just enough to look up at her, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "Judar didn't do it," he whispered urgently. "I'm sure it wasn't him!" His small hands fluttered like injured birds between them. "I know he was late to pick me up, but Hakuryuu and him—they never fight!" A fresh wave of tears spilled over as he wiped at his cheeks with rough, childlike swipes. "Hakuryuu, he wanted to—" The words caught in his throat. "He wanted to
marry him. I know because he told me!" His voice cracked on the last word, raw with the weight of a secret too big for his small body.
Serendine's frown deepened. She glanced over Aladdin's head at the uniformed officer lingering nearby, his expression carefully neutral. "Hey," she said softly, tilting Aladdin's chin up. "Don't say things like that." The boy's lower lip trembled. "Nobody is saying Judar hurt anyone, okay?" The lie tasted like ash. She could still see the blood crusted under Judar's nails through the interrogation room window, the way his blank stare had fixed on nothing while detectives shouted questions. "I just think maybe it's better if you're separated for a while. Until things are...better."
Aladdin jerked back as if burned. "No." His voice, usually so bright, held a steeliness that startled her. "If I'm gonna be taken to a foster family, Judar is coming with me!" His small fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. The officer shifted uncomfortably behind them, clearing his throat. Serendine exhaled slowly, catching the warning glance he sent her way. She crouched to meet Aladdin's gaze squarely, her knees protesting against the cold linoleum.
-----
Judar stood motionless under the awning, his shoulders hunched against the relentless rain. Aladdin pressed close to his side, small fingers twisting in the hem of Judar's damp jacket—whether seeking comfort or offering it, neither could say. The police station's harsh yellow lights bled into the wet pavement, casting wavering reflections that made everything feel unreal.
"They said it was an animal," Aladdin whispered, voice barely audible over the downpour. Judar didn't react. His knuckles were still split from where he'd swung at Cassim, the detective who'd shrugged off Hakuryuu's mother's name like it was nothing. Gyokuen Ren. The woman who'd smiled so sweetly when Hakuryuu introduced them, then later cornered Judar in the kitchen. Aladdin knew she hated Judar. But she didn’t seem like someone who could... do that.
A social worker materialized beside them with an umbrella, her smile brittle. "Your new foster parents are waiting," she said, reaching for Aladdin's hand. Judar's arm shot out instinctively, blocking her. The woman flinched. For a long moment, no one moved except the rain. Then Judar exhaled sharply through his nose and nudged Aladdin forward.
The boy hesitated, glancing up at Judar’s profile—the tight jaw, the hollows under his eyes. "Are they nice?" he asked the social worker, his voice small.
"Oh, very," she assured him, too quickly. "They’ve taken in lots of boys your age."
Judar made a sound low in his throat, something between a laugh and a snarl. The social worker pretended not to hear.
-----
The woman with orange hair stood too close, her umbrella dripping rainwater onto Judar's already soaked sneakers. "I'm Falan," she chirped, gesturing to the sagging porch behind her where peeling paint curled like dead leaves. "Welcome to my home." Judar's gaze dragged over the crooked shutters, the rusted mailbox hanging by one screw. "Great," he muttered, voice raw. "Some run-down shithole in the middle of nowhere."
Falan's smile didn't waver, but her knuckles whitened around the umbrella handle. "Your grief is no excuse to be disrespectful." She immediately knelt to Aladdin's eye level, her tone softening. "This is David, my other foster child." A small boy with a shaved head stood statue-still behind her, his oversized sweater swallowing his frame. "He's... autistic, and non-verbal. Please be nice to him." David's dark eyes locked onto Aladdin with unsettling intensity, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was counting invisible beads.
Aladdin instinctively grabbed Judar's hand, pressing against his leg. Judar stiffened—he could feel the kid trembling. The social worker cleared her throat. "We'll do monthly check-ins," she said, already backing toward her car. Judar wanted to scream. Monthly? They'd left Hakuryuu's body on a stainless steel tray somewhere, and this bitch was worried about check-ins?
Falan herded them inside before Judar could snap. The living room smelled like mothballs and lemon cleaner, the couch draped with a crocheted blanket sporting suspicious stains. A framed cross-stitch on the wall proclaimed Bless This Mess in lopsided letters. Judar's mouth twisted. Perfect.
Dinner was silent except for the scrape of forks. David ate with robotic precision, chewing each bite exactly seven times before swallowing. Aladdin kept sneaking glances at him, his own food untouched. "Not hungry?" Falan asked gently. Judar stabbed his meatloaf. "He doesn't like carrots," he growled. Falan blinked. "I... didn't know that." Judar's knife screeched across the plate. "You wouldn't."
Later, in a bedroom barely big enough for the twin beds shoved against opposite walls, Aladdin hovered by David's mattress. The other boy sat cross-legged, methodically stacking blocks into a tower only to knock it down again. "Wanna play?" Aladdin ventured, holding out a toy car. David didn't look up. His fingers twitched toward the blocks—one, two, three—before resetting the stack.
Judar yanked Aladdin back by his collar. "Leave him alone." He tossed a worn pajama set at the kid. "Change. Now." Aladdin's lower lip wobbled, but he obeyed. Judar turned away, staring out the rain-streaked window. Somewhere out there, Hakuryuu's killer was still breathing. The thought burned like acid in his throat.
-----
The whisper came just after dawn, fingers curling around Aladdin’s wrist as he crept toward the bathroom. Falan’s grip was surprisingly warm, her breath smelling faintly of mint toothpaste. "I have a surprise for you," she murmured, tugging him past the cracked linoleum of the hallway toward a door Aladdin hadn’t noticed before—nestled under the staircase like a secret. Judar’s snores rattled through the thin walls behind them.
Falan turned the brass knob with deliberate softness. The room beyond was a pocket of preserved sunlight, dust motes swirling in the slatted morning glow. Twin racing car posters curled at the edges above a neatly made bed, a desk with dinosaur stickers half-peeled from its surface. "This room," Falan said, her voice hushed as if afraid to wake the ghosts, "belonged to my own son, Tess. You can stay here if you want."
Aladdin’s gaze snagged on the dresser—framed photos of a gap-toothed boy beaming in Falan’s arms at a beach, cheeks smeared with ice cream. One showed him mid-laugh, gripping the strings of a kite tangled in a tree. "He doesn’t live here?" Aladdin asked, fingers hovering over the glass. The question tasted naive even as he said it.
Falan’s thumb stroked the edge of the nearest frame. "He’s dead," she muttered, so matter-of-fact that Aladdin’s stomach lurched. She didn’t cry. Just stared at the boy’s frozen grin. "I… understand what Judar feels right now. Nothing can replace someone you loved."
Aladdin’s hands twisted in his sleeves. "I’m sorry," he whispered, the words too small for the weight of the room. Falan shook her head, brisk now, flipping the quilt to air it out. "It’s fine. I’m sure my son would want you to stay here and be comfortable." She said it like a rehearsed line, one she’d forced herself to believe. Aladdin nodded, throat tight.
A floorboard creaked outside the door. David stood motionless in the hallway, clutching a frayed teddy bear by one arm. His eyes—flat and dark—flicked between Aladdin and the photos. Falan stiffened. "David, sweetheart, weren’t you playing in the yard?" No answer. The bear’s remaining button eye gleamed accusingly.
-----
Judar pressed the phone harder against his ear, his free hand gripping the bathroom sink until his knuckles whitened. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting sickly shadows under his eyes. "It's disgusting," he hissed into the receiver, voice low and venomous. "That woman—Falan—she's dressing Aladdin in her dead son's pajamas like she can stitch him back together with fabric and wishful thinking."
A pause. Alibaba's sigh crackled through the line. "Sounds horrible."
Judar's reflection scowled back at him from the mirror—dark circles, unwashed hair, lips pressed into a thin line. "And that boy—David—fuck." He shuddered involuntarily. "Falan keeps him locked in his room like some kind of exhibit. He doesn't blink. Doesn't speak. Just stares at you like he's memorizing how your bones fit together."
A muffled noise from the other end—Alibaba shifting, maybe running a hand through his hair. "Can't you get somewhere else? If this place makes you so—"
"Where?" Judar snapped, too loud, then grimaced as his voice echoed off the tiles. He lowered it to a ragged whisper. "No matter where we go, everyone hates my guts. My adoptive parents barely tolerated me until they could pawn me off on the state. Then I met Hakuryuu—" His throat tightened around the name. The memory of Hakuryuu's smirk, the way he'd flicked cigarette ash off Judar's shoulder without flinching, burned behind his eyelids. "—and he didn’t give a shit about anyone else. Just me. Now? Doesn’t matter."
Silence stretched. Judar leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, exhaling sharply. "As long as Aladdin’s happy," he muttered, "I can deal with it."
Judar let the phone slip from his fingers, the plastic clattering against the linoleum as Falan's reflection materialized behind him in the bathroom mirror. His spine stiffened instantly, shoulders locking tight. "Shit," he hissed through clenched teeth, whirling around to face her properly. "What the fuck are you doing here? Can't I have privacy for one goddamn second in this house?"
Falan didn't flinch. She stood framed in the doorway, her hands clasped loosely in front of her floral dress, her gaze steady. "I heard you talking about David," she said, her voice carefully neutral, though her brow furrowed slightly. "I don't like when you say such things about others."
Judar scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his nails digging into his own biceps. "Yeah? Well, news flash—I don't like being listened to like some damn zoo exhibit."
Falan exhaled softly, shifting her weight. "To tell you the truth," she continued, ignoring his venom, "I was urged to take care of Aladdin alone. The social workers thought it might be... better. But the boy insisted. He refused to be separated from you." She tilted her head slightly. "So I accepted you both."
Judar's jaw tightened. He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. "How noble of you," he sneered.
"I know you've been through a lot," Falan said, her voice lowering, gentler now. "The death of your parents. Your adoptive family having their own child—Aladdin—and casting you aside." She hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. "And now Hakuryuu. Found in your apartment."
Judar's breath hitched. He felt like the walls were closing in, the air too thick. "Don't," he snarled. "Don't fucking talk about him."
Falan didn't back down. "All I'm saying is... you can talk to me, okay?"
Judar barked out a laugh—sharp, ugly. "The fuck I will do," he hissed. "I'll behave for Aladdin's sake, but don't expect me to play psycho so you can have your fun with me." He shoved past her, shoulder knocking into hers, and stormed down the hallway.
The attic stairs groaned under his weight as he climbed, each step a punctuation mark in his fury. His makeshift mattress—just a pile of blankets really—waited in the corner, beneath the slanted ceiling where he could barely stand upright. Perfect. He collapsed onto it, the springs of the old bedframe beneath biting into his back.
From downstairs, muffled voices drifted up—Falan's, soft and coaxing, and Aladdin's, higher, curious. Judar pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids.
The attic smelled like dust and trapped heat, the kind of air that clung to the back of the throat. Judar rolled onto his side, facing the wall. A spider crawled along the baseboard, oblivious.
----
Judar woke with his spine arched like a drawn bow, his face slick with sweat as the nightmare clung to him like a second skin. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp and sour with the scent of fear and something else—something shameful. He sat up too fast, his head swimming, and stripped off his soaked boxers with trembling hands. The washing machine swallowed them with a hollow thump, and Judar pressed his forehead against the cool metal, hugging his knees as the cycle rumbled to life. Today was Hakuryuu’s funeral. The thought hit him like a kick to the ribs. He didn’t understand how it had happened. Why.
The last time he’d seen Hakuryuu alive, he’d slipped through his bedroom window past midnight, grinning like a thief. "My mother’s gonna catch you one of these days," Hakuryuu had muttered, already shifting to make space in the bed, like he’d been waiting. Judar had kissed him then, soft and eager, tasting the sleep on his lips. "She’s hot when she’s angry," he’d joked, and Hakuryuu had rolled his eyes but let Judar push his hands down his pants, let him silence the unasked question with his mouth, his hips. Now, kneeling on the cold laundry room floor, Judar closed his eyes and touched himself the way Hakuryuu had—rough and sure, his fingers twisting just so—and let out a broken moan.
When he opened his eyes, David was there.
The boy stood perfectly still in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, too wide, too wrong. Judar flinched back, scrambling to cover himself. "Fuck—get out, you damn creep!" he snarled, his voice cracking. But David didn’t move. His stare was blank, unblinking, fixed on Judar like he was something to dissect. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the washing machine and Judar’s ragged breathing. Then, slowly, David tilted his head—a mechanical jerk, like a puppet on strings. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Just air, stale and sour.
Judar’s skin prickled. "Are you… okay?" he asked, the words tasting like ash. He didn’t dare move closer.
David blinked once, slow, deliberate. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps soundless on the creaking floorboards. Judar exhaled, shaky, and slumped against the machine. The house was too quiet. No Aladdin chattering downstairs, no Falan humming in the kitchen. Just the drip of a leaky faucet and the distant, muffled sound of David’s toy—that fucking frayed rabbit—scraping against the wall in his room. Judar pressed his palms to his eyes until colors burst behind his lids.
He dressed quickly, his clothes sticking to his sweat-damp skin, and crept upstairs. The attic door was ajar, the dim glow of Aladdin’s nightlight spilling onto the landing. Judar paused, listening. Rustling fabric, a soft sniffle. He pushed the door open.
Aladdin sat cross-legged on the bed, Tess’ old pajamas swallowing his small frame. His face was blotchy, his lower lip trembling. Judar’s throat tightened. "Hey," he muttered, stepping inside. "Why aren’t you dressed?"
"Falan said…" Aladdin hiccuped, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "She said we have to wear black. But I don’t have any." His fingers plucked at the faded dinosaur print on his knee. "She gave me these."
Judar stared at the pajamas—Tess’ pajamas—and something hot and ugly coiled in his gut. "Take them off," he said, too sharp. Aladdin flinched. Judar forced his voice lower. "Just—put your own clothes back on."
"But Falan—"
Aladdin hesitated, his small fingers clutching the frayed hem of the pajama shirt. "She said it’s respectful," he whispered, but his voice wavered, uncertain. Judar clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Respectful. Like dressing a living boy in a dead kid’s clothes was anything but grotesque. He yanked open the rickety dresser drawer, rummaging through Aladdin’s meager belongings until he found the least-worn shirt—a faded blue thing with a stretched-out collar. "Here," he muttered, tossing it onto the bed. "Wear this."
Aladdin stared at the shirt, then up at Judar, his eyes wide and watery. "But—"
"No buts." Judar’s voice was a low growl. "You’re not a fucking memorial." He turned away, pacing the cramped attic space, the floorboards creaking under his agitated steps. The air was thick with the scent of dust and old wood, suffocating. He needed out. Needed air that didn’t smell like grief and desperation.
A soft rustle behind him. Judar glanced back just as Aladdin pulled the blue shirt over his head, the fabric swallowing his narrow shoulders. He looked small. Too small. Judar swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Good," he managed, gruff. "Now let’s go."
-----
The coffin gleamed under the harsh funeral parlor lights—too polished, too perfect, like Hakuryuu had ever been either of those things. Judar stood rigid at the edge of the casket, Aladdin’s small fingers crushing his own in a grip that trembled. Hakuryuu looked wrong. Peaceful. Like some wax doll version of himself, lips stitched into a faint, placid curve, the angry ridges of his childhood burns airbrushed into oblivion by layers of mortician’s putty. Judar’s free hand twitched. He wanted to scrape it off, to expose the scars Hakuryuu had worn like armor.
Gyokuen’s wail cut through the murmurs. She lunged forward, draping herself over Judar’s shoulders in a parody of maternal grief, her perfume thick as embalming fluid. "My poor boy," she sobbed into his collar, her nails digging into his jacket. Judar didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, past her theatrics, at Hakuryuu’s stiff hands folded over his stomach—the left one, the one that used to twist into Judar’s shirt when he laughed too hard, now waxy and still.
Falan materialized beside them, her mouth a pinched line. "Don’t touch him," she hissed, wedging herself between Judar and the casket, her arm barring him back. Judar’s vision tunneled. You don’t get to, he wanted to snarl. You don’t get to dress him up like your dead son, like some doll to mourn twice. Instead, his voice came out raw, too loud in the hushed room: "He was mine." The words cracked like a whip. Heads turned. Hakuei flinched near the floral arrangements; Kouen’s stare sharpened from across the room.
Falan recoiled as if struck. Judar didn’t wait for her retort. He wheeled around, tearing free from Aladdin’s grip—only to freeze when he saw the boy’s face. Aladdin blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet. "That was mean," he whispered, voice small but unmistakable. Judar’s stomach dropped. Aladdin stepped back, shoulders hunched in Tess’ borrowed pajamas, and turned to trail after Falan’s retreating figure. "She’s right," he tossed over his shoulder, the words landing like stones. "About you."
The room tilted. Judar stood alone in the wake of it, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. Around him, the funeral guests exchanged glances—pitying, wary, accusatory. Gyokuen dabbed at dry eyes with a handkerchief, her gaze sliding away when Judar met it. He wanted to scream. To overturn the casket and shake Hakuryuu awake, to demand why he got to lie there while Judar drowned in the wreckage.
Instead, he reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the jagged edge of the switchblade he’d carried since the night Hakuryuu died. The metal bit into his palm, a grounding sting. He could still smell Hakuryuu on his clothes—smoke and cheap shampoo, the scent clinging stubbornly despite the blood he’d scrubbed from his sleeves.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Judar tensed, ready to whirl around—but it was only Hakuei, her touch feather-light. "Come sit down," she murmured, her voice frayed at the edges. Judar shrugged her off. He didn’t need her hollow kindness, her sideways glances that asked how could you without saying a word. He stalked past her, past the murmurs and the flowers and the coffin, out into the biting cold of the parking lot where the only eyes on him belonged to the crows picking at the dumpster.
Aladdin’s absence gnawed at him. The kid had scurried after Falan like a kicked puppy, casting that wounded glance over his shoulder—you hurt me, you’re just like she said. Judar kicked a loose chunk of asphalt. It skittered across the lot, startling the birds into flight.
Inside his skull, Hakuryuu’s voice, rough with laughter: You always fuck it up, don’t you?
He nearly answered aloud. Caught himself. Pressed the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, as if he could physically shove the memory back down.
The creak of the funeral home door swung his head around. Kouen stepped out, lighting a cigarette with deliberate slowness. He didn’t speak—just exhaled smoke toward the overcast sky, watching Judar with the detached interest of a biologist observing a caged animal.
“They’re wrapping up,” Kouen said finally, flicking ash. “You should come back in.”
Judar’s fingers twitched toward his pocket again. “Fuck off.”
Kouen’s sigh was almost imperceptible. “Hakuryuu wouldn’t want—”
“Don’t.” Judar’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, spat on the asphalt. “Don’t tell me what he’d want. You didn’t know him.”
-----
The mortuary lights hummed overhead, casting sterile white reflections on Hakuryuu's unnaturally smooth skin. Judar waited until the last mourner shuffled out—some distant cousin Hakuryuu had despised—before approaching the casket again. The silence pressed against his eardrums like cotton.
He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing cold metal. The ring Hakuryuu had brought and shown Aladdin, but never given Judar caught the light as he slid it onto Hakuryuu's stiff finger. "Just so you know," Judar muttered, adjusting the ring's position with a roughness that belied the careful precision of his movements, "I would've said no if you'd ever asked properly." The ring looked absurd against the mortician's perfect manicure, a jagged edge in this curated display of peace.
Gyokuen's perfume hit him before her voice did—cloying jasmine and something chemical underneath. "Hakuryuu would be heartbroken to hear that," she murmured, draping herself over Judar's back, her chin hooking over his shoulder. Her nails bit into his arms through the fabric, possessive as a bird of prey. "He was always so fond of you, you know?" Her breath warmed his ear, sticky-sweet. "You're everything I have left now."
Judar twisted free with a snarl, sending her stumbling back. The mortuary candles flickered wildly in the sudden motion. "You don't seem sad at all," he hissed, backing toward the casket like it might shield him. "I don't know how you did it, but I know it was you!"
Gyokuen straightened her dress, unfazed. Her smile didn't reach her eyes—flat and shiny as doll's glass. "I would never hurt my own son." She stepped closer, ignoring how Judar recoiled, and pressed a cold palm to his cheek. Her thumb dragged under his eye, collecting moisture he hadn't realized was there. "You don't look well," she murmured, clinical as a surgeon assessing an incision. "Maybe all of this is too much stress for you?" Then, abruptly, her voice dropped to a whisper, lips nearly brushing his earlobe: "If you could... what would you do to have him back?"
The air left Judar's lungs. Behind them, Hakuryuu lay pristine and distant in his satin-lined coffin, the ring gleaming dully on his finger. Judar didn't turn to look. "Everything," he said, voice scraped raw.
Gyokuen chuckled—a sound like ice cracking underfoot. She stepped back, smoothing her gloves. "We will see."
Judar barely registered the snip of scissors before she was tucking something into her pocket. A lock of Hakuryuu's hair, black as ink against her white gloves. She passed Falan at the doorway, pressing the strand into her palm with the solemnity of a priest offering communion. "Take care of Judar," Gyokuen said, patting Falan's cheek. Her smile widened at Falan's flinch. "I trust you."