There's probably going to be a lot of blatantly American as well uneducated and incorrect Japanese culture things, so… there's that. Warnings for that. Also, the main character's a woman, but there'll be no romance whatsoever— if you didn't catch that in the tags, at least. Mostly it's just me wistfully hoping for some female main character the six brothers aren't chasing to at least round out the main cast. Or something. Frankly, I don't know.

The title's a reference to Shakespeare, by the way.

I thought it'd be funny.

Also, for the "special edition" of this fic— while this is crossposted on ao3, I did touch this version up. Think of it as updated. I'll go back and fix the original, though, but hey. Here's a better version of an already sorta-sucky-ish chapter.

Five days it's been, last Takumi's disturbed her. She doesn't really mind; is glad of it, actually, already drowning in her papers from university, working as the teaching assistant to a history professor— as well as the responsibilities of being the de facto second mother when their own actual mother is out working as a doctor at the hospital.

It's a bothersome thing, to be frank, and even if he insists his disturbances (consisting of his barging in, the doors quaking on their hinges, constant screaming and yelling about something or the other, among other things) are "absolutely important" and that they're "almost always an emergency, and you need to check it out, right now," Mitsuru can't bother herself with the whims and idiosyncrasies of an eleven year-old younger brother— especially one who has nothing better to do than dance to foreign music, and idolize the bizarre American culture she personally can't say she's ever understood.

But— well. He's not stupid (at least not entirely), and she's learned to at least listen to him, every once in a while. Particularly when the subject at hand is… interesting, to say the least.

It's when she's tucked in the corner of their living room, tapping away at reports on her laptop and humming the opening to some random anime her brother barrels his way in, for the fifty-eighth time that year. He's screaming, horribly and terribly loudly, probably tearing his throat absolutely sore in the process, demanding attention with his wild arms and wild hair and wild, wide eyes, stomping around and tracking dirt all over their living room floor.

Normally, she'd ignore him completely— as has become par course in their last few years living in Japan— but it's not every day he's yelling, "HOLY SHIT, NEE-SAN, THERE'S A DEAD GUY LYING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET."

Among other things.

And then Rin comes in right after, eyes bulging and curiously concerned, staring her elder sister straight in the eye. "Hey— you… probably want to see this."

To say the least, Mitsuru's intrigued.

Takumi knows the way there (wherever there is) best, apparently, out of the three of them. Said he comes through here often, whenever he was on his way to play basketball with some friends from school, and Rin says to trust him: and so Mitsuru does, though without that inkling of doubt. Doesn't count that as exactly relevant at the moment, though, instead posing the more important question at hand— what did he mean, exactly, when he said he saw a dead guy lying in the middle of the street?

"I mean exactly what I mean," says their little brother, eyes dragging on the floor (along with his shoes, for that matter, as she hears the scratching of hard dirt, steadily wearing away at the soles of his sneakers), kicking away a stray pebble. "There's a guy lying in the middle of the street. I think he's dead."

"I don't think he's dead," Rin counters in a ghost of a scoff, earning herself a glare from their brother. She shrugs, helplessly, then looks over at Mitsuru. "I mean— I doubt it. He doesn't look dead. At least… not entirely."

"He's lying down, and his eyes are closed, and he's not moving." Takumi crosses his arms and turns away. "I think he's dead."

"Did you, like, actually check? Go up and see if he was dead?"

He hesitates, for a moment. "Uh, no—"

"Exactly! You can't be sure that the body—"

"You said body!" Takumi jumps, heels slapping onto the ground. "You said body! That means he's dead!"

"And you said he!" Rin glares at him as he prances around her in a circle, chanting. "And you didn't even check, anyway!"

"Can we not argue about this?" Mitsuru checks her phone. It's seven, thirty-five minutes to eight. "It's late, and you took me in the middle of my work, I'd really like—"

"Yeah, yeah." Takumi stops his celebrating to take her hand, tugging her towards the intersection. "This way."

And they skitter around the corner, down the street, and Mitsuru smiles sheepishly and tossing out apologies whenever necessary to the best of her ability as they drag, drag, drag her away, chattering excitedly and heatedly between each other with the occasional intonation of, "It's not too far, it's not too far, be patient—" idly cast her way. She's wondering, now, if this was some elaborate prank Rin's thought of, somehow, and they're going to bring her into some crowd and embarrass the hell out of her for some potential blackmail, or something, before Takumi stops just by some cafe and points into the darkness.

"There," he says. He sounds as if he's proud to have found a corpse lying on a desolate street. "I think he was your age, ate."

He's calm now, she guesses, now that he's back to addressing her in their native language instead of the standard Japanese he's grown so attached to, and so she doesn't comment on his rather (possibly) rude use of the past tense. Mitsuru looks over, peering into the black— pokes at her glasses, in hopes of getting a better look.

"Don't be scared," Rin scoffs, and prods her sister over herself, now, with another tug to her hand. "See? Right there. You don't see that kind of thing everyday, huh?"

No, you don't, she thinks. Even in the darkness— and, Mitsuru notes, there's an odd lack of streetlights over where the body is, draping it in a curious and almost mystifying kind of aura— she's able to make out the figure. He's rather short— looks almost shriveled, alone and desolate on the street— and there's an assortment of household items (?) scattered idly about him, and on his head she sees an alarmingly-large red bulge, blood tracing down and through his hair, onto the ground. Mitsuru has to admit; he does look dead, from here.

Takumi says as such: even demands, "He looks dead, right?! Right?!" as Rin counters, "No, why are you still insisting he's dead, that's gross!" and Mitsuru cuts sharp into the impending argument with, "Hey, you two, I'll check. Calm down. I have my phone, so in case something's serious, I'll have it covered. Okay?"

"Sure." Takumi pouts, and then looks over, again. "Don't blame me if he turns into a zombie, or something."

"He won't turn into a zombie." There's a pained, annoyed frown etched deep into Rin's face. She turns to look at the body, tugging at her hair. "Like— look at him. He's bleeding. That doesn't happen unless your heart's beating, and your heart can't be beating unless you're alive, right?"

"I thought you didn't want to follow in Mom's footsteps," is all Mitsuru says, as she cautiously approaches him. His eyes are closed; she's not sure if she can hear him breathing.

"I don't!" Rin puffs her cheeks, and props her hands on her hips. "I'm— I'm just saying."

"Uhuh." Mitsuru slowly lowers herself to a knee, and peers at his face.

"What are you doing?" Something wary lines the Takumi's tone, and Mitsuru almost smirks; it's the most concern she's heard from him in a while.

"Check if he's breathing," hisses Rin, and Mitsuru ignores her, adjusting her spectacles and narrowing her eyes. She feels a faint breeze from his nostrils: though she can't be too sure, of that. Both his hair and his features are nothing impressive— a standard short cut, a little tousled, a plain face; the only thing of any note are those massive, preened eyebrows. Mitsuru makes a face at them.

"What? Do you think he's hot, ate?" Takumi says, perhaps a little too innocently.

"Shut up, Takumi," Rin says.

Mitsuru simply stares, for a moment longer, before she heaves herself back to her feet, looking down at him with her hands on her hips. Then she kicks him.

The reaction is immediate. Takumi startles, for a moment, before grinning widely and fantastically, looking more excited than he should be— Rin's hands rush to her mouth, choking back a guttural gasp, eyes wide before she hisses, "W— what the hell, Mitsuru?!"

The body, on the other hand, simply rolls over— but Mitsuru catches a whiff of a faint groan, and, despite herself, she grins. "He's alive."

"Awesome!" Takumi bounds over, skidding to a stop just opposite of Mitsuru, standing right behind his head. "Let's take him home for ransom!"

"Ransom for what?" Rin demands, "he's— he's alive! What— what are we supposed to do?!"

"Ransom," Takumi stresses.

"No! Seriously, Takumi?!"

"I don't think a hospital is necessary," Mitsuru says, slowly, attempting to drag the conversation back into something coherent. "Mom'll be home by now, and— who knows why he's out here?"

Takumi looks snapped out of his previous elation, and blinks at her. "What do you mean?"

"Why would he be out here, anyway? Left for dead? Wouldn't he have been taken home, by now?"

Rin pales. "I… didn't think about that."

"Gangs? Government conspiracies? International espionage? Who knows?"

Takumi looks over at him. "Maybe… maybe he's the son of some kind of yakuza family."

"Don't— don't they have tattoos, or something?" Rin wrings her wrists, nervously.

"They don't have to." Mitsuru crosses her arms.

"But he could be the victim of one! You see that bump, right?! Maybe they attacked him, or something!" Takumi waves his hand down at him, wildly, then stops to bite his lips, looking concerned. "...maybe we should take him home, ate Rin, ate Mitsuru. Just… in case."

"Yeah, just in case." Rin looks at her sister. "I'll help."

"I'll watch for shady people!" Takumi pitches in, and jumps over and away from the body. Rin comes over, looking down at his head, before stooping down and, somewhat reluctantly, tucking her hands under his shoulders and heaving him up.

"Shit—!" Rin's breath hitches, and she drops him, a little. "He's heavy."

"I'll go there," Mitsuru offers, but she's resisted with a grunt of, "No I can— do it."

It's a few minutes, but they manage to come to a compromise— Rin's still at the head, his arms wrapped back around her shoulders like some strange backpack as she holds his wrists for support (and she's refused to share what's it like to have his head resting on her chest, with all that blood getting into her blouse: though that doesn't stop from both Mitsuru and Takumi looking on curiously). Mitsuru, tough, volunteered to pick him up at his ankles, and so they're awkwardly dangling the weight (and his body) between them like those dead, limping hammock they'd sometimes accidentally break back home in the Philippines.

Takumi, meanwhile, is up ahead, acting as the self-promoted look out (and neither Mitsuru nor Rin was really complaining), making sure no yakuza would jump out at them suddenly and take back what was theirs, or whatever. There's also their unspoken creed of, shit, we can't have anyone see three half-foreigners dragging around some twenty-or-something year-old around like they're kidnapping him and call the police because isn't that really freakin' suspicious, but that would suck so much ass honestly— one of the rare times they're in complete agreement, actually. And so he leads them through the darker corners of the streets, working as quickly and quietly as possible untill, about fifteen minutes in and ten minutes after they should've arrived, they stumble into the front door, dragging in an adult male as Takumi shrieks, "Nanay, we're home!"

Their mother's just arrived, at least just about five minutes before. Mitsuru can tell, from the way she looks: she's tired without her tea, and she's got those bags under her eyes, and she's still got her purse, and she looks ready to call the police, phone at her ear— probably because the kids weren't home when she'd first come through the doors like they're usually supposed to be.

"What the hell," is the first thing Pilar says, still in her uniform. Her eyes are wide as she scans the three (the four, Mitsuru corrects herself) of them, burning metaphorical holes into their heads as she replaces the phone, and turns to glare down at them. Mitsuru wonders if she should've thought this over better.

"Uh—" Rin freezes, and drops his arms as he falls to the floor with a loud, worrying clank— and if Mitsuru wasn't so worried for her own safety, she would've flinched. "Takumi found him."

"It's not my fault! And you were with me when you found him!" Takumi's hands are in the air, in the international sign for surrender. "Ate said we should bring him home!"

He means her, Mitsuru knows, and she pales as the glare's concentrated on her, now. Crap. "Uh— we were thinking he was the victim of some yakuza activity and thought we should take him here instead of the hospital?"

"Really." She looks less than amused, and the three of them share worried looks. "Kids," she continues, rubbing at her forehead, "I— I don't have time for this."

"But he was left on the street," Takumi insists. "That's really, really really suspicious, right?"

Pilar peers at them, from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. "...what do you mean?"

"Uh—" Rin looks at her siblings. "Takumi and I found him, and we brought ate Mitsuru so she could see. We're... not really sure if he's okay. Or if we can even bring him to the hospital."

There's a silence, as their mother stares the three of them in the eye wordlessly. For a moment, Mitsuru's worried she'll tell them to kick him out— when she says, "Let me see him. I'll see what I can do."

Their house is nothing fantastical, to say the least. Said to have been where their father grew up— and Mitsuru's not arguing, else they probably wouldn't even be here, anyway— it's a rather old and traditional home, complete with the sliding doors and "all that goddamn wood," as quoted from Pilar: vastly different from the modern apartments not too far away, though Pilar insists that it's cheaper, here, as their father owned it and they'd lived here, when he left, anyway so there was no point in moving.

The living room is small, but workable; the television's in the corner, propped atop a small cabinet where Takumi (and Mitsuru, admittedly) keeps the video games, the table in the middle where they both eat and do homework (even if they usually stick to their self-claimed corners, due to the lack of much 'personal space' in the house and the convenience of four people to four corners)— though it's open, in case they have the need to rearrange the room for whatever reason or another.

Reason such as this, perhaps— the table's shoved to the corner, a spare futon draped on the floor on which the uninvited guest lies upon. Around him lies an assortment of clutter items, all medical in nature, and Mitsuru admits to really recognizing only some of them: gauze, some cream, bandages, wipes… a towel, too, because they're all more than aware of Pilar's (who's hovering by his side, working her medical doctor magic) awful sweating habit.

"There we go," their mother says, exhaling, falling back to lean on her palms as she wipes at her face to get at said sweat with said towel. "But he— he should be okay."

Mitsuru can't say the same thing herself, honestly. He looks like a mummy, wrapped in more gauze and bandages than she's ever seen in her life, a cast dangling from his right arm— and Takumi's gone off to fetch a crutch when their mom suggested it'd be useful, for some injury or another on his legs. Mentioned little hints of rope burn and slight actual burns to his face and feet— and she doesn't want to know what that could even mean.

"A hospital visit isn't necessary," Pilar continues, crossing her arms and legs and closing her eyes. "I am concerned, however, as to where these injuries… come from. Ate— where did find him, again?"

"In the middle of the street, near some cafe and this other place," says Takumi as he approaches, and they both turn as he carefully descends the stairs, balancing the crutch under one arm. "I don't really remember. It was dark."

"He's right," Rin says, from the corner. She's on her laptop, headphones cradled carefully around her neck. She looks only half-invested in the conversation, staring at the screen that reflects brilliantly on her face. "I was with him."

"Huh," is all Pilar says, and bites her lip. "Mitsuru, I think he's about your age. Isn't he supposed to be at university?"

Mitsuru half-heartedly mumbles, "I don't go to university, either," which is only half true. She works there, but she doesn't go to school there.

"We could ask him," Takumi pitches in helpfully. He sits down, fingering around in his pocket before fishing out his phone and earbuds. "When he wakes up."

"Ugh," Pilar says, and buries her face in the heels of her palms again. "Please don't remind me that there's an adult male in my house. With my kids. At night."

"Then let's dump him outside," deadpans Rin. She jabs violently at the trackpad.

"We're not dumping him outside," Piliar sounds pained. She digs her fists into her lap, looking conflicted. "That'd be… rude."

"Doesn't he have a phone, at least?" Takumi's over at the television, leafing through the books in the cabinet. He looks up, flashing a mischievous grin. "We can try and hack it."

"We can try," Mitsuru stresses, "to see if he has one on him to maybe track down his address."

"No luck." Pilar shakes her head. "Nothing I found, at least, and I'm not looking any further." She pauses, and frowns. "I think… I think he's wearing his sleepwear. From yesterday night."

"That's gross." Rin finally looks up, and makes a face.

"We'll ask him when he wakes up, then," Mitsuru says, getting up. "Until then? I'm starving. I'm going to start dinner."

There's a resounding chorus in the little household— Pilar sighing, "Thank the Almighty Lord," in her native language, and they all get up and head towards the kitchen, ready to begin on dinner.

Mitsuru never minded, when it came to her mother's lack of much input when it came to dinner. Was never one for cooking, actually— left that part up to her husband, who had once cooked every meal in the household. They all consider themselves lucky, that Mitsuru's picked up from where he left off; learned enough so that when he was gone, she was able to carry it out herself, without missing a beat.

Dinner's always been a family affair, though; Mitsuru's always been at the head of it all, but she'd never be able to do it without Rin, and Takumi, and Pilar. Would decide what to eat for dinner in the morning, during breakfast, and they'd all pick up things on their respective routes, on their way home.

Afternoons are filled with commotion in the kitchen as Mitsuru orders them around— Takumi working on the dishes, Rin hacking away at the knives, and Pilar carefully measuring ingredients, all while Mitsuru threw everything together in a flurry— one Rin called "an absolute disaster", Takumi dubbing it "Ultimate Hell", and Mitsuru insisting "it's an organized mess": though no one, really, could argue with the end results.

Tonight is fried eggplant (courtesy of Rin, who picked some up after school), with shrimp fry (a combined effort of Mitsuru and Pilar, who, over the course of roughly five days, painstakingly managed to collect the ingredients of a paste most Japanese have probably never heard of) with the standard staple of rice (Takumi's personal investment, who for some reason likes heaving the bags from the groceries after school— insists that it kept up his strength, and all that). It's always been a favorite of Rin's, from back home— she had, after all, been the one to suggest it, then later buy the staple ingredient— and she'd been ecstatic, visibly grinning, when the food was done as they'd sat around the table (she and Pilar had brought the man upstairs, so as not to disturb them as they ate). The fact that they'd brought home a stranger was almost forgotten, as they'd ventured into the dinner that night— up until they heard a sudden banging, upstairs.

Four heads turn up to stare at the ceiling, for a moment, before three of those heads turn to look at Mitsuru, who flinches at the sudden attention.

"What?" she says, almost stupidly.

"Mr Yakuza's awake," Takumi says, waving his chopsticks at her.

"Don't call him that," says Piliar, quickly, before turning to her daughter. "Check up on him. Make sure he's okay."

"And that he's not stealing my stuff," Rin says, pointedly. She keeps her laptop in that room.

"I'll go," Mitsuru says, sighing, pushing herself to her feet. She scratches at her back, and casts her gaze upstairs. "Hopefully he's not doing anything bad…"

"He'll pay for anything he breaks, then," Pilar says, seriously. Mitsuru ignores her, and trudgs her way upstairs.

It's quiet, when she arrives at the door; she hesitates, breath held and hand hovering before her, ready to enter. Or— maybe not entirely. She isn't sure. She'd forgotten to turn on the lights, when she came up, and it casts the hallway in a faux-inauspicious kind of mood— on which Mitsuru quickly squelches, firmly, shaking out her shoulders and shoving the door open, flipping on the lights.

He's awake.

He looks even plainer, with his eyes open— perhaps a little more beaten up, with his bandages and scratches and cast, his crutch thrown lazily to the side (which Mitsuru suspects Takumi is guilty of; he'd always been careless, when it came to things he didn't particularly care for). He's sitting down, on the floor, rubbing at his side— from a fall, Mitsuru guesses, which would explain the crashing and his somewhat pained expression. Speaking of expression— he looks… intense, for the lack of a better word, with those eyebrows set deep and low on his face, and the fact that he's staring at her doesn't help any, in that regard.

The fact that she's staring back doesn't help any, either.

Shit. She should say something. "...are… are you okay?"

He look torn. He pulls himself in, legs crossed, and he stares at his hands, tight in his lap as fists. He doesn't say anything.

Mitsuru looks conflicted herself, and several expressions cross her face before she coughs, and looks away. "We, uh— found you. On the street. My mom" — in Japanese, of course; it'd be embarrassing to spout Nanay in the face of a stranger, especially when she's not entirely familiar with him in the first place— "put on those bandages and stuff. This, uh— this is my house."

He still doesn't say anything. He continues to stare at his hands.

"You look, uh, pretty beat up. And stuff. It… it looks pretty bad. Did, uh— did something happen to you?"

Mitsuru thinks she hears a faint sniffle. She coughs, again, and when he looks up she makes an awkward sneezing noise, and rubs at her nose, eyes cast on the ceiling. "Okay, hey, I know this might be hard, but—"

She's cut off with a sudden choking noise, and she turns to him, alarmed, just in time to see him burst into tears.

Mitsuru flinches, staring, absolutely and utterly paralyzed. What the fuck?!

That was a really big mess and everything is— probably wrong. Probably. Definitely. Absolutely.

Also Karamatsu doesn't even fucking talk. This entire thing is a mess and hopefully everything'll get back to something coherent once I get the next chapter up.