(Cover photo by barleytea on tumblr)

This is a roleswap between Ken and Shinjiro.

Reviews are highly appreciated.

He's barely a week old and things have already gone to shit. His dad's found out about his existence. He's cut his girlfriend off from him, the way Shinjiro's cord was cut from his mother not so long ago- forcefully, terminally; with a rusty back-alley knife.

Things don't go as he'd expect from there. Between cops drilling students about sex, drugs, and violence throughout the latter middle school years and high school, he'd expected to have died at most a few days later. He didn't. His mother received the help and support needed from her family, and lived a difficult, but good life from then on. She was kind, so kind, so forgiving, and so goddamned strong. She made friends with other women like herself, and advocated for all the right things. She was respected even by the most conservative of the neighbourhood. What a fine young lady, people would say. Shinjiro, she'd named him. But she'd only ever call him Shinji. It was his name, and he loved it, because of her. It was always thanks to her. Everything was.

She died anyways.

He's 16 years old. Near-top student in his grade, mid-90s in all his subjects. No glasses, no pimples, no braces, no iffy pubescent voice (anymore). Just simple and proper and all-around admirable. Pretty good athlete, superior academics, and kind-hearted towards children and animals as well. Everyday, he feeds the neighborhood stray that'd lost its owner. 16, and so well-liked everywhere and anywhere.

16, so revered by the younger students of Gekkoukan, so preferred by tween fiction authors, such a typical teenager age. Maturing, both physically and mentally, learning, growing. He's growing into a fine young man, the family friends tell him. He'll be out and making a living before long. They grow up in the blink of an eye.

16, he learns, isn't worth jack shit.

Dark brown hair, short and clean, a prim and proper uniform, and a much-loved beanie (but only on weekends out). He's that kind of person, that kind of kid.

So when his mother dies in an accident, he's no longer a kid. He's learned things just aren't fair. There are criminals; thieves, liars, and cheats that deserve far worse. His mother's done nothing. And now he's left all alone just for having been born. It just ain't fucking right.

It just ain't fucking right.

But Tatsumi Port Island is a pretty big city, and it's a few days before his mother's colleagues realize she's been absent without reason. When they call, Shinjiro doesn't pick up. When they call again, Shinjiro doesn't pick up. They wait two days, and call again. Shinjiro doesn't pick up. His school calls. He unplugs all the phones and takes out all the batteries. He turns all the lights off so people don't think of ringing up his apartment. He slowly gets used to the smell of the refrigerator.

The next day, the police comes in. Shinjiro doesn't open the door for them. They ask again. Shinjiro says no. They ask again. He says no. He doesn't relent. Later, they kick down the door. It's the first time he's held at gunpoint. (He thinks foolishly it'll be his last.) The police ask him some questions. He complies with their demands.

Cops, he's already realized, are idiots. They can't set things right, truly serve justice to whoever it was that killed her. And now, it's not until nearly a year later, in early September, after having been thrown around the family like some ugly duckling, they finally decide for him to settle with his (other) uncle. He says okay. (He doesn't give a damn at this point.) His uncle is shit.

(Everyone's shit, compared to his mother.)

He observes carefully. Every household he's had to stay with has had their own little thing, their own little button to push that drives them crazy and drives him off to another family. It only takes him two or three days to figure it out this time. Practice makes perfect, and the fruit of his report is as follows: his uncle is ever the drunken old man, irresponsible and neglectful. The fact that he is simply lonesome and remorseful about whatever had happened in his long life, and would never hurt a bug, much less Shinjiro, is something kept in another folder. It isn't useful information for now. For now.

(Perfect.) He tells the social worker his uncle's been beating him. That night, he goes out on his bicycle. Shinjiro heads out along the bridge, humming like he's just on a leisure ride. He smiles to himself like a dolt, genuinely, because it wouldn't be appropriate to let hysteria burst out all at once. Around the time the traffic thins out, he crashes into a few poles (he considers cars, but that might be going too far). He heads home with a slight limp, mission nigh accomplished. His uncle's already drooling on the couch. Shinjiro takes a drink from the rows in the perpetually open cupboard and downs it. He wonders if his uncle ever even notices the exponential disappearance of his stash. Shinjiro goes outside and smashes the glass bottle in the back so as not to make too much noise.

He cuts up his arms and face a little bit with the shards, making sure to draw blood. Then, he takes off all his clothes and cuts there as well. The more implications, he figures, the better. He scatters the rest around and in his uncle's hand, making sure the man's fingerprints cover his own. Shinjiro sits down on a kitchen chair. Everything stings.

He drifts off a little and wakes up at around three a.m.. His head hurts, and as does most of him, still. His uncle's still asleep. Shinjiro calls the social worker again. He's no actor, but wee hours of the morning tend to impair others' judgement as well. He cracks his voice when he asks, pleads, fucking outright begs for her to come get him out of there.

"I'm sorry, Aragaki-kun. I didn't know it was this bad. Someone will be over to get you in a few hours. Stay strong."

"Okay," Shinjiro chokes, and hangs up. (He's actually choking in laughter.)

A few minutes later, and he's all packed up. Better earlier than later, he figures, to increase perceived desperation. In his schoolbag, he's got a change of clothes, some junk food, and schoolwork. He's made sure to wear a t-shirt and shorts to show off his latest handywork. He picks at the scab on his forehead.

He waits. He waits. He waits.

As he sits there, waiting, he realizes he shouldn't be at all. What the hell was he doing? Why should he wait? Why should he wait for someone to pick him up, someone else to make up petty sob stories to, someone else's home to go to, someone fucking else to toss him around like a cheap cigar? Why wait? His mother died for no reason. Just up and went and passed on. Why wait? The same could happen to him at any given second.

Now he's pissed and he feels even shittier than usual. His head hurts, but his thoughts are entirely clear, if seen through lens of determined, reckless audacity. So in a single, concise moment, he makes the decision. Shinjiro strides over to the sofa and shakes his uncle gently, making sure he's still only half-awake before asking for his signature. Just in case the need arises for 'legal guardian's approval'. It's a groggy, slow process, but between the man's seemingly permanent hangover and the fact being it's not yet 4 in the morning, he manages to obtain his uncle's print. (He considers asking for credit card information, but that could arouse more suspicion.) "Thanks. Go back to sleep now."

"What time is it?"

Shinjiro tells him the time. His uncle curses loudly, drops his head back onto the sofa, and falls asleep again like he's just died. Shinjiro slinks off to the kitchen. The social worker would be here at 6 at the earliest, if she's someone not married to the job (thankfully, he's monitored her like anyone else, and he's most certain she is). That leaves two more hours.

But he's made up his mind already. Shinjiro reaches for the phone for what will probably be the last time in a while. "Hi. It's Aragaki Shinjiro."

"Aragaki-kun, we'll be there soon. Is it very urgent?"

"Actually, no, no. I wanted to take back what I said."

"What do you mean?"

He pauses, and holds in his laughter. "Well... promise you won't tell?"

"Aragaki-kun, you know you can tell me anything."

"Even something... not legal?"

She hesitates. "Of course."

It's tough from there on out, but only because he's on the very edge of bursting into giggles. Shinjiro tells her of this guy he knows, a friend of a friend, and he knows this guy, right, and drugs, he knows drugs, and Shinjiro doesn't, right? (He figures she knows he used to be one of those good kids from good backgrounds, so he doesn't really need to go any further.) So stuff happened and he got confused and emotional and he's fine now though his head really hurts but it's fine, really, no need to worry, there was some strong stuff in there, probably hallucinogens, Shinjiro says, I heard of that in health class, it's bad and it causes hallucinations, they seemed so real, he adds, wow, he says, anyways, so his uncle didn't actually hurt him at all, and was actually trying to help him, but the stuff warped his perception so he mistook his intent. Shinjiro says there's no need to come rescue him or whatever, and that he's very sorry to have interrupted her sleep. No, no, he says, when she insists, my uncle does get pretty mad if you wake him up early- trust me, you don't want to deal with that.

She finally lets him off the hook with: "I'm just glad you're safe, Aragaki-kun."

"Thank you. I'm really, really sorry for the trouble. Please don't tell anyone what I told you."

"Of course not. Goodnight. Get some sleep."

"You too, Matsui-san." He hangs up.

Bags packed anew (the only difference is no schoolwork and more painkillers), Shinjiro looks around for anything else. He grabs a toothbrush, though he can't imagine he'll find use for it. He looks around some more, grabs any knife that cuts, stuffs it into his bag. Maybe he'll get a chance to upgrade his arsenal later.

Lastly, amid the severe lack of veggies in the kitchen, he spots the cupboard. Why not take one for the road? He takes out yet another and puts it in his bag. It's kind of heavy. He closes the cupboard. His uncle's really got to cut down. Not like Shinjiro personally wants him to die, but whatever. Not his business, not his problem. He's hungry. Looks around in the fridge. Gets some things. Makes a sandwich. Eats it. Drinks a glass of water. Cleans up.

He takes his keys and locks the door behind him. The sun's begun to rise over the other side of the horizon. Pale light streams in over the rooftops, all shaped like telephone wires and chimneys. It's quiet. A car whizzes by. It's cold. Shinjiro takes out his peacoat. He changes into a pair of long black pants at the entrance to the apartment building. He pulls his beanie down to his eyes. The big cut on his forehead's bleeding again. He picks at it. He slings his bag over his shoulders, and walks away. He doesn't look back.

(There's nothing for him to fall back on anyway.)