Shouji

Another night, another mess for him to clean up. What else was new? Mopping brains up off the floor paid the bills, at least.

The usual meeting place is a phone booth next to a convenience store. Shou would have to remember to pick up something to eat for his sibling later. He was gonna be home late tonight.

Leaning against the outside of the glass phone booth, he keeps himself occupied. There were a lot of ways to entertain himself while he waited. He got pretty good at eye-spy over the months.

Shou drums his fingers against his thighs until the phone rings, echoing against the glass walls. He darts inside and instantly picks up the receiver.

The second he answers, he can feel his heart drop into the pit of his stomach and down to the soles of his shoes. It's a call where he just hears one word at the end of the line, the phone speaker's warm static tickling his ear: "Sato."

Shou murmurs unintelligibly in reply, the sound of his last name feeling foreign to him. His tongue feels dried-out, too big for his mouth.

As the cold plastic presses up against Shouji's ear, the voice continues, piercing through him with a quick string of words: the address where he would clean tonight.

Quickly taking a worn-out, crinkled receipt along with a pen out of his jacket pocket, Shou scribbles it down in a near-illegible font. The call ends. It's just Shouji, his thoughts, and the beeping of a dead line.

The receipt crumples in his hand. Fuck the paper trail; he'd trash the note along with the body once he got there. Shouji readjusts the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, trudging forward to his destination.

It only takes a short walk to get to the clean-up site: an uninteresting set of apartments. Shou double-checks the unit number on his receipt as he walks through the halls with a quiet stride. Finding it after only a moment, he pushes through and into the apartment without so much a knock on the door.

The sight that greets him isn't pretty. It never is.

Fresh blooms of gore smear across almost every wall. The smell is reminiscent of a lovingly-used butcher's block; it used to make his stomach lurch, but not anymore. Shou quickly learned not to eat before jobs.

Walking around with slow, careful steps, surveying the extent of the damage, he spots you. Well, not you, not anymore. He spots your body. Unconsciously, Shouji lets out a low whistle.

Man, you look fucked.

He's careful not to slip in your blood, still hot, wet, and everywhere. Shou stands over you, scuffed work boots caging each side of your body. The bag slung over his shoulder slips off his bulky frame and lands right next to your head.

Retrieving them from his back pocket, Shouji snaps a pair of bright yellow latex cleaning gloves around his hands. The scent of fresh rubber and blood blend together.

It's gonna be a long night for the two of you.

He fumbles for a moment in his work bag. Tools and cleaning supplies smash against each other, creating a racket, before he finds it: his faithful pliers. Shou gives it a slight squeeze, testing them out, making each end kiss the other.

Returning to your body with a grim sense of acceptance, he rolls back his shoulders with a loud crack. The pliers twirl in his hands: hungry, eager to get started.

Crouching down, nearly sitting squat on your chest, he pries your jaw open as his fingers latch behind your top and bottom teeth. Your dry, dead mouth feels like the inside of an old leather coin purse.

First order of business: make sure no one can track your dental records. Next, he'd sear off your fingerprints, and then…

He was getting ahead of himself. One thing at a time, step by step.

His work was already rough; coming home to you after a job was even harder. He could wash off all the blood and gunk off of himself, but what really stuck to him was the stench.

Here he is, your older brother, feverishly cleaning any evidence off himself in a convenience store bathroom.

If he washed his hands enough, the smell of soap would overpower the smell of stale blood clinging to him, right? He tries again, pumping too much artificial-vanilla-scented soap into his palms, almost scrubbing the skin off as hot water scalds his skin raw.

It's another late night for him, a night where he left you alone way too long for his liking. You were a good kid. It didn't matter what anyone else said; you were gold. You didn't deserve a fuck-up like him as your brother, a fuck-up way too deep in shit he barely understood the gravity of.

Bringing a hand up to his nose, he takes a cautious sniff of his freshly-cleaned skin. Nope, still smells like old rust and bad decisions.

Shou tries again and again, finally smelling fresh as a daisy, much to the dismay of his now chapped, raw red hands.

Exiting the bathroom, he drags a wet hand down his face. Shou stills. The water on his face feels good and brings him back to reality, even for a moment. The cold droplets do little to ease the heat of frustration inside him, though.

The sound of pop jingles filtered through the old speakers, the discordant beeps of the automatic konbini doors, the chattering of customers: it all rings through his head until overstimulation takes over.

Shouji retreats to an aisle filled wall to wall with snack food, hoping the bright, colorful mascot characters can cool down the boiling kettle of emotions inside him.

He strolls, laughing under his breath at a particular package of rice candy with a cute cat printed on the label. Shou immediately stops in his tracks, spotting an all too familiar sight: your favorite treat. At least he remembered it as your favorite.

Shou had some change to spare, feeling a few loose yen coins jingle around in his jacket pockets. He could make it up to you and make you do that big, toothy smile you did when you were little. He missed that smile, though he wouldn't admit that to your face. Shouji didn't want to embarrass you.

Did the doting big brother act get old after a while? He hoped not.

This was more for him than you. He knew that. Shou always did this when he felt guilty, but…

He leaves the convenience store with a spring in his step and a small plastic bag in hand, a treat just for you inside.

The walk home goes by quick. Kicking off his boots with practiced ease, Shou's eyes immediately scan the small, shared apartment for any sign of you. "Home," he yells, the sound echoing.

The cutesy, childish socks he got last Christmas contrast hard with his stern demeanor. It's hard to take a man seriously when he's wearing Satochan socks, but he still expects respect. Shou's the man of the house, after all. Apartment, actually, but it's all the same.

"Got your favorite," Shou calls out again, dropping the bag onto the kitchen table. He trudges off with a grunt, dropping into his usual spot on the worn couch. "Just eat it before it gets gross."